The Bridge
Don Peterson, Co C, 383rd Infantry Regiment
Horn yelled, "Peterson, get your gear and report to Ski at Headquarters, on the double."
As a private in a combat infantry company, I know it can only mean trouble when you're singled out for anything. I'm part of a team, here; we've been trained to work as a group. Horn didn't grab a bunch of guys to go out on patrol, or paint rocks. or do the kinds of no-brain stuff that privates do best - he picked me. By name. Maybe it's KP, or I'm going to be decorated, or courtmartialed, or ...
We (Company C. 383rd Regiment. 96th Infantry Division), with the help of a few other units, had invaded Lcytc, P.I. at M minute on October 20, 1944, and then participated in front-line combat activities until yesterday, November I. Now we're doing patrol duty, mopping up, and resting up in a "rear area"
Anyway, you don' I argue with Horn. I got my stuff and went to HQ. First Sergeant Cendrowski told me I'd been "volunteered" for detached duty. "Elliott will give you a ride over to regiment. You're gonna guard a bridge for three days, then report back to me." Okay. So they need a dependable, courageous, responsible man who can work without supervision, That’s why they picked me -- makes sense.
At regiment I learned that our detail consisted of six other outstanding privates and me, accompanied by 14 Filipino guerrillas. A captain briefed us: "We're opening a supply route from Dulag, across the island to Ormoc, about 35 miles. The map shows seven bridges over streams intersecting the road, and we need 24-hour guards on each bridge to secure the road. One man and two guerrillas at each bridge; you'll be relieved in three days. Move out."
We helped each other load onto a deuce-and-a-half; drove down the coastal road to Dulag, and turned west on the new supply route. Not much of a road, even by Leyte standards. but vehicles should be able to meet and pass without too much trouble.
The truck stopped at each bridge, and three guys got off with their gear and a 10-day supply of rations for their replacements. At the fourth bridge, about 18 miles from the coast and a half mile past the barrio of Matagpa, I think, I unloaded and two guerrillas followed. We look our supplies to the side of the road, and watched the truck roar off to the west and disappear in a cloud of dust.
It was a nice area - flat lowlands, with scattered groves of trees, sugar cane fields. random brush, a few typical thatched-roof homes visible. There were some native folks near-by, bathing and washing clothes in the creek, looking on curiously, enjoying the mild, sunny day.
We carried our supplies across the road, and introduced ourselves to each other. Abe and Manuelo knew little English, and I knew no Visayan. I sent them to ask some local folks whether we could occupy a vacant hut near our bridge, II seemed to be empty, in good condition, about 16 feet square. with an elevated boar floor, palm-frond walls and roof. Abe told me that a small Japanese unit had occupied the hut for a month or so until a few days ago. The Filipino family who owned it had moved away before that. So we moved in, threw our bedrolls on tile floor, stowed our rations, examined the "kitchen" area, and went out to inspect our bridge.
The bridge spanned the road, about 22 feet wide. It was just slightly below road level, and consisted of two coconut logs, each about 14 inches in diameter at the butt-end; one butt north, one butt south. The logs lay directly on the muddy soil that was the creek bed, At this time, however, the creek consisted of shallow pools along the course, and a trickle of water under the bridge. Big deal. The first three bridges we'd seen were more impressive - two of them even crossed running streams.
But we had been sent here for good purpose; our bridge was a vital link in the supply chain to help restore democracy in the Philippines and rid the world of tile tyrannical Japanese. We would protect this structure from all enemies, foreign and domestic. walk our post in a military manner, and prevent such damage to its structural integrity as might be inflicted by saboteurs or nature. A heavy burden, but we could handle it, for three days, anyway. Piece of cake.
Shortly after our arrival a parade of about thirty grinning, singing, American-flag waving, barefoot Filipinos ambled toward our camp from the nearby barrio.
The leader, who turned out to be the mayor, was riding a horse and leading another - a beautiful, white mare. He stood in his stirrups, made a rousing speech in his native tongue, and we all cheered and clapped.
The mayor, smiling broadly. then made me to understand that I was the first American GI they had seen since the landing, and that I was most welcome in their humble community. Still smiling, he also invited me to join him in a toast to the continued friendship of our two countries. He filled my canteen cup with "tuba", a violent native beer or wine or something made with quinine, roots, berries. and tannin, It had a bitter taste, but I didn't want to offend them, so I drank it. All of it.
It was then he presented me with the white mare. For one who has never gotten off a horse on purpose in his life, this was not as great a thrill as it might have been. I had to have another cupful, to show my gratitude, while trying to think of what the hell I was going to do with a horse. But my replacement would be here in three days, wouldn't he? I'll sell it to him!
After some more smiling, handshaking, pidgin, and tuba, I tried to climb onto the horse, and with the willing assistance of many hands, got on top[of the beast and sat there. Bareback. No stirrups, no handles, nothing.
From this dizzying height, I felt obliged to respond to the mayor's eloquence by making a speech in my native tongue. I said. in essence, "Thank you very much for this big white horse. As the appointed emissary or General MacArthur and the Great White Father in Washington, I also thank you for your hospitality, I now direct you to go forth into the countryside and bring me all the Japanese flags, sabers, rifles and pistols you can lay your hands on. To enhance the relationship of our two great countries and win the war real fast."
The happy throng cheered enthusiastically, and ran off in all directions to do my bidding, My new friends; I had charmed them!
The two amused guerrillas helped me dismount in a non-military manner.
My new friends never did return with the booty. Most likely because Manuelo bad incorrectly translated my speech. or perhaps they just didn’t understand or appreciate my authority.
After dining on K-rations that evening, my two young (14 and 15 years old) guerrillas made the acquaintance of some of the local folks in our neighborhood. They seemed especially interested in the two lovely young ladies who lived with their family next door to our headquarters hut, and took them for a stroll down the road until well after dark.
After setting up an informal schedule to maintain constant surveillance of our bridge. we bedded down for the night. I lay there listening to the sounds of strange frogs and insects, and thought about our situation: Here we were, about 18 miles beyond the American-held beach-head, without any communication other than the road, and we had no idea where the enemy was. Three guys with only personal weapons for comfort, guarding two stupid logs that - in event of flood or enemy activity - could. be repaired or replaced in less than 20 minutes using the pioneer tools strapped to the side of any Jeep. Some duty. Glad it's only for three days.
Sleepily I became aware of distant thunder in the west, rolling our way. As it approached and the night-sounds grew still, I heard the intermittent sound of very large raindrops plopping on the ground and the large leaves of tropical plants. The sounds of rain and thunder slowly expanded to a roar as the monsoons descended on Leyte. It poured all that first night and the next day and night and then came the wind.
We managed to get a fire started next morning, and had breakfast; our shelter withstood the rain and wind with only a few leaks. We could see the bridge from a window; actually, we couldn't, but we knew it must be there under a foot or so of flowing, muddy water. The road was visible: except in the low spots, however, it had turned into a quagmire the consistency of warm peanut butter, knee-deep on a tall Filipino, and suitable only for a caribou wallow.
No supply convoys will be able to travel this road for days. I told myself: What an understatement?
Our GI rations were exhausted in just a few days - except tor the 40 pound bags of rice and dehydrated potatoes. I had traded those to the neighbors in exchange tor a daily meal of rice with stewed caribou, served on a banana leaf - delicious when compared to C-rations. The natives made every effort to restore the potatoes to a useful form, but eventually gave up on the rock-hard pellets, They served plantains, instead.
The diet was simple, but seemed adequate. 1 did lose 35 pounds during this episode, though. and later learned that I bad picked up a hookworm - served on a banana leaf, I suspect.
When the sun came out as it sometimes did, steam rose from everything, including our soggy clothes. Nothing was dry; what the rain didn't soak, the humidity did. Tropical rain forest with all its smells, crawly critters, and diseases.
Abe and Manuelo appeared concerned with neither the elements nor our predicament, and continued to visit their young ladies, either in happy conversation with the whole family or strolling through the forest in pairs. They came in later every night. but their schedule never impaired our faithful vigil.
As the weather settled into its soggy routine, the rains relented for brief periods, the bridge reappeared above the surface of the current, and the road began to lake on form again. The only traffic on it was an occasional pedestrian, with or without a caribou, but it was enough to assure us that the bridge was still functional, although semi-submerged. Still no supply trucks. no relief.
As one day followed another. the tedium was interrupted by apathy, with random periods of monotony. My guerrillas gave me ample time alone, so that I could read and re-read my Philip Marlowe paperback - 23 times, once backward. I wrote a 78 page letter to my future wife on K-ration toilet paper - before the advent of ballpoint pens. I watched the bridge through the window opening, and played solitaire until Ute cards got too soggy to shuffle.Only a few events during this detached duty are memorable:
One day Manuelo said. using pidgin and sign language. "Hey, Pete (a term of respect). You wanna go to the cane field and watch the Japs go by?" He was referring to the ragtag stragglers, the enemy soldiers who were trying to escape the bloody battlefields by following trails across the island toward Ormoc Bay, that corner of Leyte still held by the Japanese. They travel in small groups, he said, moving at night and holing up during the day. We?ll hide in the cane just off the trail. and they won't even know we're there. he said. I replied in my native tongue. "Yah, you bet," and so we went. After dark that night we hunkered down in the cane next to the trail, and waited quietly. We soon heard whispers and slogging footsteps, and then saw a couple of stark-naked skeletons stagger past, slapping listlessly at mosquitoes. They were soon followed by a few more, then more, and then by a group of about 50, some carrying weapons, all gaunt and filthy, heading for Ormoc Bay. When they'd passed into silence, I told Manuelo it was time to go home. Just knowing that this parade went on night after night within a hundred yards of our shack was exciting enough for me.
It was nearly dawn a few nights later when Abe woke me and tensely signed that he heard noises under our elevated floor. I listened. woke Manuelo, we all listened - and Abe was right. We knew. right then and there, that a number of those enemy stragglers from the Ormoc trail were planning to sleep the day away under our hut, How many? Armed? Who knew?
So, silently, tactically, in the dark, we made a plan: At first light on the count of three, we would leap from our lair with weapons ready, and either kill them quickly, take them prisoner. Or at the least. impress them with our audacity.
As it started getting light in the east, we tiptoed to our positions, and waited. Finally, on signal and screaming "Geronimo" or "Banzai!" or "Surprise!", who can remember? we vaulted out of our door and windows - we had surrounded and stupefied them. They were dazzled by our cunning and our stealth!
Much to our surprise. however, "They" turned out to be a flock of frightened feral pigs, simply seeking shelter under our floor. In the face of our attack they scattered-squealing in terror, dodging us and each other in their fearful flight to the boonies.
Abe, Manuela, and I, pumped for battle, were immediately deflated by this turn of events. On assessment, we were willing to forget the whole matter; however, the family next door had been up and about to partake of their morning ablutions when they became witness to our heroic maneuver. They made no attempt to disguise their amusement at that time. and later considered it necessary to tell the mayor and nearly everyone else in Matagpa about our tactical charge. We lost face.
Not many days after the pig affair, I heard aircraft approaching from the west. It sounded like a large flight, flying low, and I assumed they were ours. When they appeared over the treetops, I recognized the red meatball on the wings and dove into the "spider" hole (constructed by the previous tenants). The flight was a mix of transports, lighters, and torpedo bombers, following our road toward Dulag and the beachhead. Two of the fighters peeled off and circled back to the west, dropped their auxiliary fuel tanks, and came back, very low, strafing the road. They circled, made another pass. and then continued on, following the main flight eastward, This made a lot of noise and a number of' holes along the road, but hit no significant targets. It was a thrill for me, but 1 still have no idea. what they were shooting at.
Curious about the Japanese aerial activity, next morning I decided to walk down the drying road to the next bridge to see whether the GI guard there knew what was going on. He didn't, but we wondered whether the flight was part of a large counterattack. One of the auxiliary fuel tanks had almost hit his bridge: he showed it to me. This was the first conversation either of us had had with an American for a long time, but neither knew what the world bad been up to the past few weeks. I waded the four miles back to my bridge.
Mid-morning a few days later - I had no idea what the date was anymore, sometime in late November, I guessed - a tired, muddy GI slogged down the road from the east, leading a caribou with two crates tied on its back.
What a welcome sight! He wished me a Happy Thanksgiving on behalf of Eleanor Roosevelt, who had promised "her boys" in the far-flung battlefields of the world that hey would have turkey for Thanksgiving. And today's the day, he said. This guy, Ed, from El Paso, had the duty of bringing a turkey dinner to the bridge guards, the first GI on the road for a month. He was to report the condition of the route on his return, and we could expect relief within a week, he thought, Ed had left Dulag by Jeep the day before, got stuck about 10 miles back. and borrowed the caribou to complete his trip westward. The turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberries, and apple pie were all cold and kind of mixed together, but delicious! I'd vote for Eleanor any day.
With the end almost in sight, 1 cheered up considerably and started making preparations for departure - no way would I keep that truck driver waiting. I washed my fatigues on a flat rock (I was getting good at it), shaved, and got a haircut from the local barber who used a knife and a comb.
After a couple more days of hot, dry weather the road was judged passable, and the monsoon season was declared over. I walked over to Matagpa to visit the mayor and relinquish my claim to the white mare; the mayor appeared grateful and relieved.
We inspected the bridge one last time, and found it unmoved by nature, unthreatened by the enemy, and passable for any traffic that might come to bear. We could leave our post knowing that we had done our duty. The convoys could roll.
The truck came by from the east, the driver slowing down enough to tell us to be ready: he'd be back in a couple hours. We sat down by the side of the road to wait.
When he returned with the relieved guards and guerrillas from the westerly bridges, the three of us loaded up and I asked the driver, "What's the date?" "November 30th", he said. He also said. "They ain't gonna be no replacement bridge guards; they's a better supply route further north. We own the island now, 'cept for Omroc Bay."
As we approached the beach, it became apparent that things had changed while we were away. Fenced in QM supply depots. hospital tents with the sides rolled up, nurses and patients strolling around, military police directing traffic, no running, shooting, shouting ... Saw some privates painting rocks white: a rcal "rear area".
When the truck stopped near Tolosa, I said good-bye to Abe and Manuelo, jumped off the truck. and walked a couple hundred yards to C Company's new area; it was on higher ground and things looked more settled and civilized than when I left a month earlier. Patrols and mopping up were still the order of the day, however.
At the headquarters tent I told the clerk I wanted to report in to First Sergeant Cendrowski, The clerk said. "He's busy now, but I'll tell him. What's your name again'!" I found the good old third platoon and 1 was home again - my own squad, my own people! Arid when my own Sergeant Lemons saw me he squinted, and cackled, "Peterson, where in the hell have you been?"
THE END