Cryptonomicon (108 page)

“Smooth sailing, Amy.”

Amy gives him a little smile over her shoulder, then walks straight to the exit, turning around once in the doorway to make sure he’s still looking at her.

He is. Which, he feels quite confident, is the right answer.

A
COUPLE OF SQUADS OF
N
IPPONESE
A
IR
F
ORCE
soldiers, armed with rifles and Nambus, pursue Bobby Shaftoe and his crew of Huks towards the Manila Bay seawall. If it comes to the point where they must stand and slug it out, they can probably kill a lot of Nips before they are overwhelmed. But they are here to find and assist the Altamiras, not to die heroically, and so they retreat through the neighborhood of Ermita. One of MacArthur’s circling Piper Cubs catches sight of one of those Nip squads as it is clambering over the ruins of a collapsed building, and calls in a strike—artillery rounds spiral in from the north like long passes in a football game. Shaftoe and the Huks try to time the incoming rounds, guessing at how many tubes are firing on them, trying to run from one place of concealment to the next when they think there’s going to be a few seconds’ pause in the shrapnel. Maybe half of the Nips are killed or wounded by this barrage, but they are fighting at such close quarters that two of Shaftoe’s Huks are hit as well. Shaftoe is trying to drag one of them out of danger
when he looks down and sees that he is stomping across a mess of shattered white crockery that is marked with the name of a hotel—the same hotel where he slow-danced with Glory on the night that the war started.

The wounded Huks are still capable of moving and so the retreat continues. Shaftoe’s calming down a bit, thinking about the situation with more clarity. The Huks find a good defensive position and stall the attackers for a few minutes while he gets his bearings, works out a plan. Fifteen minutes later, the Huks abandon their position and fall back in panic, or appear to. About half of the Nipponese squad rushes forward in pursuit and finds that they have been lured into a killing ground, a cul-de-sac created by the partial collapse of a building into an alley. One of the Huks opens up with a tommy gun while Shaftoe—who stayed behind, hiding in a burned-out car—heaves grenades at the other half of the squad, pinning them down and preventing them from coming to help their comrades who are being noisily slaughtered.

But these Nips are relentless. They regroup under a surviving officer and continue their pursuit. Shaftoe, now on his own, ends up being chased around the foundations of another hotel, a luxury place that rises up above the bay, near the American Embassy. He trips over the body of a young woman who apparently leaped, fell, or was thrown from one of the windows. Crouching behind some shrubbery for a breather, he hears a shrill keening drifting out of the hotel’s windows. The place is full of women, he realizes, and all of them are either screaming or sobbing.

His pursuers seem to have lost track of him. The Huks have lost him, too. Shaftoe stays there for a while, listening to all of those women, wishing he could go inside and do something for them. But the place must be filled with Nip soldiers, or else the women wouldn’t be screaming as they are.

He listens carefully for a while, trying to ignore the lamentations of the women. A fourteen-year-old girl in a bloody nightgown plummets down from the fifth floor of the hotel, thuds into the ground like a sack of cement, and
bounces once. Shaftoe closes his eyes and listens until he is absolutely sure that he does not hear any children.

The picture’s getting clearer now. The males are marched away and killed. The women are marched off in another direction. Young women without children are brought to this hotel. Women with children must have been taken somewhere else. Where?

He hears tommy gun fire on the other side of the hotel. It must be his buddies. He creeps around to a corner of the hotel and listens again, trying to figure out where they are—somewhere in Rizal Park, he thinks. But then MacArthur’s artillery opens up hell-for-leather and the world begins to heave beneath him like a rug being shaken, and he can’t hear trench brooms or screaming women or anything. He has a view east and south towards the parts of Ermita and Malate from which they have just come, and he can see big pieces of debris spinning up from the ground over there, and gouts of dust. He has seen enough of war to know what it means: the Americans are advancing from the south now
as well,
pushing towards Intramuros. Shaftoe and his band of Huks were operating on their own, but it appears that they have inadvertently served as harbingers of a big infantry thrust.

Terrified by the barrage, a bunch of Nip soldiers stagger out of a side exit of the hotel, almost too drunk to stand, some of them still pulling their trousers up. Shaftoe disgustedly throws a grenade at them and then gets the hell out without bothering to examine the results. It is getting to the point where killing Nips is no fun anymore. There is no sense of accomplishment in it. It is a tedious and dangerous job that never seems to end. When will these stupid bastards knock it off? They are embarrassing themselves in front of the whole world.

He finds his men in Rizal Park, beneath the shadow of Intramuros’s ancient Spanish wall, disputing possession of a baseball diamond with what is left of the Nipponese squads that pursued them here. The timing is both good and bad. Any earlier, and Nip reinforcements in the surrounding neighborhood would have heard the skirmish, flooded into the park and wiped them out. Any later, and the American
infantry would be here. But Rizal Park is in the middle of a deranged urban battleground right now, and nothing makes any kind of sense. They have to impose their will on the situation, the kind of thing Bobby Shaftoe has gotten fairly good at.

The one thing they have going for them is that the artillery is pointed elsewhere for the time being. Shaftoe squats down behind a coconut tree and tries to figure out how the hell he is going to reach that baseball diamond, which is a couple of hundred yards away across totally flat, open ground.

He knows the place; Uncle Jack took him to a baseball game there. Wooden bleachers rise along the left and right field lines. Beneath each one is a dugout. Shaftoe knows how battles work, and so he knows that one of those dugouts is full of Nips and one is full of Huks and that they are pinned down in them by each other’s fire just like Great War troops in their opposing trenches. There are a few buildings under the bleachers, containing toilets and a refreshment stand. The Nips and the Huks will be creeping through those buildings right now, trying to get into a position from which they can shoot into the dugouts.

A Nipponese grenade flies towards him from the direction of the left field bleachers, making a stripping noise as it passes through the fronds of a palm tree. Shaftoe ducks his head behind another tree so that he can’t see the grenade. It explodes and tears the clothing, and a good deal of the skin, from one of his arms and one of his legs. But like all Nip grenades it is poorly made and miserably ineffectual. Shaftoe turns around and uncorks a spume of .45-caliber rounds in the general direction the grenade came from; this should give the thrower something to think about while Shaftoe gets his bearings.

This is actually a stupid idea, because he runs out of ammunition. He has a few rounds in his Colt, and that’s it. He also has one grenade left. He considers throwing it towards the baseball diamond, but his throwing arm is in pretty bad shape now.

Besides—Jesus Christ! That baseball diamond is just too
far away. Even in peak condition he could not throw a grenade from here to there.

Perhaps one of those corpses out in the grass, between here and there, isn’t really a corpse. Shaftoe crawls towards them on his belly and establishes that they are most definitely dead people.

Giving the field a wide berth, he begins working his way around behind home plate towards the right field line, where his people are. He would love to sneak up on the Nips from behind, but that grenade thrower really threw a fright into him. Where the hell is he?

The firing from the dugouts has become sporadic. They have stalemated now and are trying to conserve ammunition. Shaftoe risks rising to a crouch. He runs for about three paces before he sees the door to the women’s toilet swing open and a man jump out, winding up like Bob Feller getting ready to throw a fastball right down the middle of the plate. Shaftoe fires his .45 once, but the weapons’ absurdly vicious recoil jerks it right out of his lamed hand. The grenade comes flying towards him, perfectly on target. Shaftoe dives to the ground and scrambles for his .45. The grenade actually bounces off his shoulder and falls spinning into the dust, making a fizzing noise. But it doesn’t explode.

Shaftoe looks up. The Nip is standing framed in the women’s room door. His shoulders slump miserably. Shaftoe recognizes him; there’s only one Nip who could throw a grenade like that. He lies there for a few moments, counting syllables on his fingers, then stands up, cups his hands around his mouth, and hollers:

Pineapple fastball—

Guns of Manila applaud—

Hit by pitch—free base!

Goto Dengo and Bobby Shaftoe lock themselves inside the women’s room and share a nip from a bottle of port that the former has looted from a store somewhere. They spend a few minutes catching up with each other in a general way. Goto Dengo is already somewhat drunk, which makes his
grenade-throwing performance all the more impressive. “I’m hyped to the gills on benzedrine,” Shaftoe says. “Keeps you going, but kind of screws up your aim.”

“I noticed!” Goto Dengo says. He is so skinny and haggard he looks more like some hypothetical sick uncle of Goto Dengo’s.

Shaftoe pretends to take offense at this and drops into a judo stance. Goto Dengo laughs uneasily and waves him off. “No more fighting,” he says. A rifle bullet passes through the women’s room wall and digs a crater into a porcelain sink.

“We gotta come up with a plan,” Shaftoe says.

“The plan: You live, I die,” Goto Dengo says.

“Fuck that,” Shaftoe says. “Hey, don’t you idiots know you’re surrounded?”

“We know,” Goto Dengo says wearily. “We know for a long time.”

“So give up, you fucking morons! Wave a white flag and you can all go home.”

“It is not Nipponese way.”

“So come up with another fucking way! Show some fucking adaptability!”

“Why are you here?” Goto Dengo asks, changing the subject. “What is your mission?”

Shaftoe explains that he’s looking for his kid. Goto Dengo tells him where all of the women and children are: in the Church of St. Agustin, in Intramuros.

“Hey,” Shaftoe says, “if we surrender to you, you’ll kill us. Right?”

“Yes.”

“If you guys surrender to us, we won’t kill you. Promise. Scout’s honor.”

“For us, living or dying is not the important thing,” Goto Dengo says.

“Hey! Tell me something I didn’t fucking already know!” Shaftoe says. “Even winning battles isn’t important to you. Is it?”

Goto Dengo looks the other way, shamefaced.

“Haven’t you guys figured out yet that banzai charges DON’T FUCKING WORK?”

“All of the people who learned that were killed in banzai charges,” Goto Dengo says.

As if on cue, the Nips in the left field dugout begin screaming “Banzai!” and charge, as one, out onto the field. Shaftoe puts his eye up to a bullet hole in the wall and watches them stumbling across the infield with fixed bayonets. Their leader clambers up the pitcher’s mound as if he’s going to plant a flag there, and takes a slug in the middle of his face. His men are being dismantled all around him by thoughtfully placed rifle slugs from the Huks’ dugout. Urban warfare is not the metier of the Hukbalahaps, but calmly slaughtering banzai-charging Nipponese is old hat. One of the Nips actually manages to crawl all the way to the first base coach’s box. Then a few pounds of meat come flying out of his back and he relaxes.

Shaftoe turns to see that Goto Dengo is aiming a revolver at him. He chooses to ignore this for a moment. “See what I mean?”

“I have seen it many times before.”

“Then why aren’t you dead?” Shaftoe asks the question with all due flippancy, but it has a terrible effect on Goto Dengo. His face scrunches up and he begins to cry. “Aw, shit. You pull a gun on me and start bawling at the same time? How unfair can you get? Why don’t you kick some fucking dirt in my eyes while you’re at it?”

Goto Dengo lifts the revolver to his own temple. But Shaftoe sees that one coming a mile away. He knows Nips well enough, by this point, to figure out when they are about to go hari-kari on you. Shaftoe jumps forward as soon as the barrel of the revolver begins to move. By the time it is against Goto Dengo’s skull, Shaftoe has his finger stuck into the gap between the hammer and the firing pin.

Goto Dengo collapses to the floor sobbing piteously. It just makes Shaftoe want to kick him. “Knock it off!” he says. “What the fuck is eating at you?”

“I came to Manila to redeem myself—to get back my lost honor!” Goto Dengo says. “I could have done it here. I could be dead on that field right now, and my spirit going to Yasukuni. But then—you came! You ruined my concentration!”

“Concentrate on this, dumbshit!” Shaftoe says. “My son is in a church right over on the far side of that wall, with a bunch of other helpless women and children. If you want to redeem yourself, why not help me get ’em out alive?”

Goto Dengo seems to have gone into a trance now. His face, which was blubbering just a minute ago, has solidified into a mask. “I wish I could believe what you believe,” he says. “I have died, Bobby. I was buried in a rock tomb. If I were a Christian, I could be born again now, and be a new man. Instead, I must go on living, and accept my karma.”