But the boy was no longer standing.
Satariano remained in the road, near the bullet-riddled vehicle, though on his knees now, head down, in a posture that might have been prayer, or a man weeping. The “tears” that fell to the pavement, however, were red.
The general helped the corporal to his feet. The boy looked at him with one eye; shrapnel had removed the other one, leaving a torn, bloody socket.
“Got him, sir,” the boy said, and grinned, and passed out in Wainwright’s arms.
Within hours, the general was again at a bedside, this time in the hospital tunnel on Malinta Hill on Corregidor. Limping along in the shot-up vehicle until help met them halfway, they had brought Corporal Satariano — Pugh had performed first aid — to Mariveles and then, on the army’s appropriated Elco cabin cruiser, to the hospital on the Rock.
Save for the heavily bandaged side of his face, the boy looked his typical angelic self. He was coherent, despite morphine.
“No one was hurt, sir?” the boy asked.
“No one but you, son.” He placed a hand on the boy’s arm. “I won’t insult you by pulling any punches — you’ve lost an eye, Corporal. Your left.”
Satariano said nothing; neither did his expression.
The general summoned a smile. “You’ve got the Hollywood wound, son — a ticket stateside. You weren’t in this war long, but you already did your share.”
The bandaged head shook, slowly. “Nobody’s getting off Bataan, General. No matter how badly wounded.”
“You’re already off Bataan, aren’t you? This is Corregidor.”
The patient rose up on an elbow; the remaining brown eye was wide. “I can shoot with one eye. You sight with one eye closed, anyway, right, sir? I’m not through here!”
“Actually, you are. We can’t send you back into combat. You’d be a danger to yourself, and to others, much too vulnerable on your left side, and anyway, it’s a matter of regulations... No discussion on this point, son.”
“...Yes, sir.”
“But you’ll serve your country just the same.”
The exposed eye seemed slightly woozy, and the boy was clearly fighting the morphine’s effects, trying to stay focused and not float away. “How can I do that, sir?”
“You already have. You’re going to be a hero.”
For the first time, Satariano grimaced, as if pain had finally registered. “What?”
“I’m recommending you for the Medal of Honor for that little dust-up in the jungle. You’ll have to settle for a DSC for the more minor matter of saving my life... Having a hero come off this peninsula right now’ll mean a lot to a lot of people.”
“You make it sound like... like I’m...”
“You’re going home, son. You are going home... You see, I’ve just met with General MacArthur. He and his staff are heading out to Australia tomorrow tonight, and we’re taking advantage of that to get you to a better medical facility, and off Bataan.”
The boy, startled by this news, sat bolt upright. “MacArthur? Leaving?”
Wainwright did his best not to reveal his own bitter disappointment; taking over a command could hardly have felt worse. “Yes. It’s a direct order from the president.”
“But... the men...”
“The general’s determined to come back with reinforcements and air support. I’m afraid that’s not your concern now. If you want to undertake another mission for me, then by God be the one ordinary GI who got off Bataan to tell our story... and make sure we aren’t forgotten.”
“All... all right, sir.”
With an arm pat, the general said, “Now — get some rest, and get ready for a PT boat ride.”
Satariano nodded, the eye half-lidded.
The general rose. He nodded toward the Garand rifle, leaned against the metal nightstand. “You did well with my rifle, Corporal.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I want you to take that rifle home with you as a souvenir.”
“But General, it’s ordnance issue...”
“To hell with the pencil pushers back in Washington — it’s yours. Take it in thanks for spotting that plane. He’d have gotten us all, if you hadn’t seen him coming in out of the sun. We counted seventy-two bullet holes in that scout car, you know.”
Wainwright removed a small notebook from a pocket and jotted down the words: “To Michael P. Satariano, Corporal United States Army, for saving my life in a strafing attack by a Japanese Zero fight on Bataan, March 10, 1942. General Jonathan M. Wainwright.”
“Put these words under that gun,” the general said, placing the slip of paper on the small metal bedside table, “and hang that Garand over your fireplace, for your kids and grandkids to see. Promise me you’ll do it, son.”
“...I promise. Would you... do me another favor, General?”
“Name it.”
“Say good-bye to Captain Wermuth for me. And tell him this is not my fault.”
“Of course it’s not your fault,” the general began.
But the corporal had fallen asleep, his right eye fluttering till it closed, leaving the white gauze patch to stare accusingly at General Wainwright.
On March 17, after a harrowing journey, General MacArthur, his family and staff arrived safely in Australia by way of Mindanao. With them was the only American soldier to get off Bataan, the first Congressional Medal of Honor winner of the Second World War.
Michael Satariano of DeKalb, Illinois.
Book One
Home-Front War
DeKalb and Chicago, Illinois
Miami, Florida
July 1942
One
Patsy Ann O’Hara, unquestionably the prettiest coed on the Northern State Teachers’ College campus, did not have a date for the Fourth of July.
Apple-cheeked, strawberry blonde, her heart-shaped face blessed with Shirley Temple dimples, a beauty mark near her full lips, her big long-lashed dark blue eyes accented by full dark (cautiously plucked) eyebrows, her five-foot-five figure one that Lana Turner would find familiar, Patsy Ann had been a stunning beauty for so many years, she never thought about it, really, other than to carefully maintain this gift from God.
The former homecoming queen of DeKalb Township High (class of ’38) considered herself more conscientious than vain — meticulous about her grooming, maintaining an exercise regimen, avoiding excess sweets and too much sun, her selection of clothing as exacting as a five-star chef choosing just the right ingredients for a gourmet meal (before shortages, anyway).
Today she had selected an appropriately patriotic red-and-white-checked cotton sundress, its ruffled trim at both bodice and skirt accentuating her just-full-enough bosom and her Grable-esque gams, further set off by red-white-and-blue open-toed wedge-heeled sandals. The outfit perhaps seemed a trifle young — she was, after all, twenty-one...
...but she wanted to look like a high school girl today, or at least invoke one, even if doing so risked occasional askance glances or even envious ridicule from females who never had looked this good, not even in high school.
Anyway, the men would like it... though she only cared about the reaction of one specific man sure to be at the festivities today...
None of the panting males at Northern State Teachers’ College had even bothered to ask Patsy Ann out for the Fourth. This had nothing to do with a shortage of men — fully half the enrollment was male, ranging from 4-Fs to guys waiting for Uncle Sam’s inevitable “greetings,” as well as a number who’d received deferments. They had long since stopped trying, knowing she was “taken.”
The first several years at Northern, she’d been dating her high school boyfriend; and ever since her guy had joined the army and gone off to fight in the Philippines, Patsy Ann had been steadfastly true, a college woman wearing the high school class ring of her overseas beau. Frustrated as some of the guys at Northern might be, they admired her for this loyalty — so did even the cattiest females on campus.