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.’’
‘‘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.
‘‘Withers,’’ Whittaker said, making up his mind. ‘‘If I’m not back in twenty-four hours, go to Mindanao.’’
‘‘What about Mount Vesuvius?’’ Withers asked.
‘‘Fuck it, let someone else do it. Go to Mindanao.’’
‘‘You’re counseling this man to desert?’’ the captain said.
‘‘Fuck you, Captain,’’ Whittaker said. ‘‘Mind your own business.’’ He took the Colt .45 revolver from his belt and extended it, butt first, to Withers.
‘‘You better keep it, Lieutenant,’’ George Withers said. ‘‘You never know.’’
Whittaker put it back in his belt.
‘‘I hope to come back,’’ he said.
‘‘No, you don’t,’’ Withers said. He put out his hand.
Whittaker had another thought. He had the only watch. He took it off and handed it to Withers. It was the Hamilton he had received in Cambridge from Chesty Whittaker on his graduation.
‘‘I hope I can give this back to you sometime,’’ Withers said, and then he surprised Whittaker by tossing him a very snappy parade-ground salute.
‘‘Good luck, Lieutenant,’’ he said.
The captain was surprised to see tears in the eyes of the Filipinos when they shook Whittaker’s hand. They saluted as they drove away.
Between Abucay and Mariveles, what the captain had heard kept gnawing at him.
‘‘You don’t really think your sergeant is going to make it to Mindanao, do you?’’
‘‘They’re going to give it a good try,’’ Whittaker said.
‘‘They’d need a boat,’’ the captain said. ‘‘Where would they get a boat?’’ And then, when it became obvious Whittaker wasn’t going to reply, he went on: ‘‘You sonofabitch, you’ve got a boat, don’t you?’’
Whittaker looked at him but said nothing.
‘‘Where?’’
‘‘So you can go requisition it?’’ Jim Whittaker asked. ‘‘I told those men if they would stick with me to the end, I’d do what I could to get them out of here.’’