At the end of the day, I usually walked out of work by myself. From General Electric Company’s Building five in Fort Wayne, Indiana, it was a half mile walk on paved “yard” to Taylor Street. That’s where my wife Beulah and our baby, Davey waited in our old Nash. On Saturday, February third, 1945, a new-hire from Building Six joined me. That’s the first time I remember meeting Thomas. We didn’t complain about working on Saturday. We got paid time and a half after forty hours. We worked forty-eight almost every week. Weekends and holidays were never a guarantee of time off during the war.

Those of us who lived through the great depression a decade earlier were doubly grateful for our jobs. During the depression, Beulah, our baby daughter Patsy, and I lived with Beulah’s mom and dad. We all helped run Patterson’s Food Market out of their house. I earned extra income by driving taxi at night—model A cars.

After I got on with Pioneer Ice Cream Company, I worked my way up to foreman. We bought our three-bedroom, two-story house. It was in a good neighborhood, on Monroe Street. War was declared in ’41, but I had class III draft status, exempt because of our little ones. By 1944 the draft rules were changing, though. Men with dependent children were being called up. Beulah and I were relieved when we found out GE was hiring.

GE employed forty percent of Fort Wayne’s workforce by 1945. The production lines made parts for the war effort. That meant all workers were draft-exempt and could continue living on this side of the Atlantic. GE couldn’t produce control systems for antiaircraft planes fast enough to assure that those on the other side of the ocean could keep flying P-51 Mustangs and P-38 Lightnings. We built motors for the ships that carried those replacement parts to Europe, too. Daily news reports told readers of the life and death dog fights pilots routinely fought over Europe. We knew our work was important.

I remember being briefly introduced to a group of new hires that morning. I didn’t pay much attention to individuals. They were assigned to Building Six. I was Building Five—Transformers. When Thomas caught up to me in the yard it was sundown. Clouds darkened the already gray day, so I couldn’t get a good look at him. He remembered me, though, even my name.

“You walk fast, Al. Someone waiting for you?”

I was friendly by nature, but in those days, you had to be careful who you talked to and what you told them. Spies were everywhere. “My wife,” was all I said.

He sensed my caution, I guess, and tried to set my mind at ease by introducing himself. He was a talkative guy. “I’m G. A. Thomas. I don’t use the G.A. Just call me Thomas. I met you this morning, remember? You’re Al, right? Today’s my first day on the job. I came over from Studebaker. I was draft-exempt there, too. I’m single, but I have a big family. My brothers are scattered overseas, in Italy, Germany, and England. I follow the war news closely. I’d like to join them over there, but my dad needs me here for a while to take care of some things for him.”

I still didn’t remember him specifically, but I felt comfortable enough by then to talk a little more freely. I had troubling things on my mind. Some of it came spilling out.

“I come from a pretty big family—seven sisters, two older brothers. None of us are in the war, except the oldest, my sister, Celeste. She joined the Maryknoll nuns in 1922 when she was twenty-eight. At first, she was sent to Hawaii, but since ’34 she’s been in the Philippines. We haven’t heard from her, now, for almost seven months. The army thinks the Japs are holding her and her group in a camp somewhere.”

Thomas was sympathetic but optimistic. “That’s tough, but you know that MacArthur and his troops are already back in the Philippines, don’t you? They landed this past October, the twentieth I think.”

“That’s what the news reporters tell us, but we haven’t heard from my sister.” I read the News Sentinel every evening. I figured Thomas must listen to radio reports in the morning. Broadcasters got the news out ahead of journalists. I didn’t have time for morning news programs.

He tried again to reassure me. “I’m sure it will take just a little longer for them to free everyone. I hear the Japanese people are starving. They’re bound to give up soon. I’ll pray for her.”

He was so sincere and sure, I wondered again if he could be a spy. His offer to pray impressed me.

“I don’t know if she’s dead or alive, or what they might have done to her.” I looked more closely at him then. I think I said, “Thanks for the prayer.”

He was a young man—taller than me—with shaggy, brown hair. Probably didn’t have enough time or money for a haircut. Since my dad was a barber, I noticed things like that. Thomas seemed intent on educating me.

“MacArthur’s forces are liberating each of those islands right now. I’m sure they’ll rescue those faithful ladies.”

Maybe he was sure, but my family had no guarantees. We just hoped and prayed day and night. I was low on hope right then. We were getting close to the edge of the plant’s property. I could see where Beulah was parked, so my conversation with Thomas was about to be cut off. He could see Beulah and Davey through the windshield.

“You didn’t say you have a family. Who’s the little guy? Any other little ones?”

I was beginning to feel like I’d been walking with Thomas a long time. It was almost like being with Clarence or Ed, my brothers. I’m a pretty good judge of character and felt he could be trusted.

“We’ve got Patsy, almost twelve. She’s home with our four-year-old, Albert Leslie.”

“Beautiful,” he said, “they’re nicely spaced, and you seem financially secure. Well, you will be when you make foreman here at GE. You seem like the kind of man who would have goals, work hard, get ahead. Sounds like you’ve led a charmed life.”

His comments hit home on several levels but missed the mark on others. I left Pioneer in 1944 because I was about to lose my class III draft status—father with dependent children. GE promised me rapid promotion to foreman providing I took their management classes. Did Thomas somehow know that? Was he a company spy? It didn’t take a spy to figure out that I wouldn’t want to spend my life working on the line. That would mean sitting on a wood bench with a of a pot of molten solder in front of me attaching wires on transformers. Women workers were hired for that since the war started.   

Interesting that he picked up on how our kids were spaced. That was no accident. Maybe because I came from such a large family, but I strongly believed each child should have seven years to get their full allotment of love before there was another baby.

I felt a little defensive. “The Lord’s been good to us,” I agreed, “but we’ve had plenty of hard times. When I met Beulah, we were in high school. I was offered a chance to train as a professional golfer. It would have meant good money, a nice lifestyle. I wanted to get married and go on the golf circuit right then. My dad wouldn’t sign for me to go until I finished high school. That opportunity was lost forever.”

“But that was a blessing, Al” Thomas insisted. “Those professional golfers are now fighter pilots or slogging through cold, muddy trenches.”

I had to admit he was right. Thomas didn’t know about the death of our first baby, though. That was no blessing. When we got married, Beulah and I were young and inexperienced. Neither of us had a job. It took a lot of arguing before my dad agreed to support our marriage, as long as Beulah converted to Catholicism. Naturally, a baby came along quickly. I was embarrassed when I carried a baby crib home while the neighbors watched. I was ashamed of myself later because our baby, Albert Gene, died of a lung disorder when he was two days old. No blessing there.

Thomas didn’t interrupt my thoughts. He turned and walked away with a smile and his quiet, “See you later, Al.”

I slid behind the wheel and was greeted with hugs and kisses. Beulah filled me in on the news the day when she had time to listen to the afternoon radio broadcast. MacArthur had freed some two hundred people from an internment camp in the Philippines, but there was no mention of nuns in the group. We didn’t know if there was another camp or if this was our last hope. Maybe, she was already dead, lying in a heap of bodies someplace.

I parked in our old shed of a garage and followed Beulah across the back yard and into the kitchen, warm with cooking. I’d bet on macaroni and cheese or potato patties for dinner, since meat was being rationed. I was half right. It was meatloaf, stuffed generously with bread crumbs to stretch the beef, and potato pancakes. Pancakes were made by adding an egg and frying leftover mashed potatoes. Nothing was thrown out.

I heard music from the radio and went through the dining room and into the living room. Patsy had the big, wooden radio set to listen to Doris Day singing Sentimental Journey. Leslie was on the flowered area rug playing with a toy car and some blocks.

“Daddy,” she shouted and they both ran to give me a big hug.

Patsy and I were always close, as if she had been the first born.

“The paper’s on your chair, Daddy. I went out to the yard to get it. The boy missed the porch again.”

She loved her music, though, and quickly turned back to the radio.

  The newspaper headlines were about the bombing in Germany. Lower on the first page I saw an article about plans for a conference in Yalta to start the next day. Roosevelt and Churchill invited the Russian leader, Stalin, to join them to discuss plans for after the war. That sounded optimistic. There wasn’t a line about what MacArthur’s forces were doing. After dinner, I asked Patsy to play with Leslie while I listened to the voice of Edward R. Murrow broadcasting the latest news at six-forty-five. The first US Calvary had arrived in Manila where they liberated more allied POWs from another camp. I was only a little encouraged. We had heard good news before. It always seemed to be followed by bad news.

Sunday morning, the fourth, I went to the basement early to shovel coal into the furnace. It hadn’t been as cold as usual that winter, but the house still got plenty chilly overnight. I struck a match and lighted a burner on the stove, filled the silver coffee pot with water, put grounds in the basket, and set the pot on the burner to start percolating. When Beulah smelled the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, she came downstairs in her robe. I was surprised she didn’t sleep later, since we could go to late mass at Saint Patrick’s church. She wasn’t as talkative as usual, just got out a bottle of milk and poured some of the cream off the top into each mug. After a few sips she stared across the gray Formica tabletop at me until I looked up from my book.

“Davey went to bed quietly for a change.”

“Well, he’s getting older.” He would be a year-old March eighth.

She took another sip of coffee and kept looking into the liquid in the thick mug. “Yes, he is, but I don’t think he’s going to get his full seven years of loving.”

It took a minute for me to fully understand what she was telling me. Another baby. 

“When?”

“October, if I’m not mistaken.”

This sure wasn’t our plan. Another mouth to feed. Another child needing clothes. Doctor’s bills! And one of our sisters or brothers were always needing help of some kind. We finished our coffee in silence.

Thomas showed up at quitting time on Monday, and greeted me with what he knew from the morning news broadcast. The war news was the first topic of conversation for everyone, just as it was for us. On Tuesday, February sixth, he didn’t even say, hello, first.

“MacArthur liberated Manila, today! The report is that thousands of prisoners have been set free.” He smiled. “Didn’t I tell you good news is coming?”

He seemed pleased with himself.

“Still haven’t heard from my sister.” I was grouchy, not inclined to be happy about anything.

The following day, Wednesday the seventh, I greeted Thomas with what someone at work told me he learned from a special broadcast at noon.

“I hear the Japs shelled the Santo Tomas camp in Manila. You know, the one the US ‘liberated.’ Seventeen internees and several American soldiers who were still there were killed. Bad news always seems to follow the good.”

I didn’t usually have such a fatalistic attitude, but my hope was wearing thin. Thomas wasn’t fazed, he just said, “It’s not over, yet, Al. Good will win in the end.”

  Thursday the eighth was my birthday. I was thirty-five years old and feeling like every day of it had been a year long. Thomas was enthusiastic about the heavy bombing of Iwo Jima. He said it was a preparation for an upcoming invasion. That did nothing to cheer me up. The following day there was fighting southeast of Manila, closer to where we thought Celeste was. I felt a drop of hope.

Two days later, the eleventh of February, the Yalta Conference ended with the promise of peace in Germany. But the bombing didn’t stop. I paid closest attention to news from the Pacific where fierce fighting was reported all that week.

Sunday the eighteenth was peaceful in our home. I was reading the February issue of Reader’s Digest. It was something I enjoyed and hoped we could continue to afford. I finished the article about the Dumbarton Oaks Peace Plan and had just started one entitled Why Is Labor Unrest at the Danger Point? Beulah was reading to Leslie, during Davey’s nap time. I looked up from my magazine when I heard the word, king.

“What king are you reading about?”

“Babar, the king of the elephants,” she said. “There’s a series. Leslie likes them. I get them at the Allen County Library.”

Obviously, the children kept her mind off the war while I dealt with the products for war every day. The radio was playing music by Glenn Miller’s Army Air Forces Band. Even that didn’t make me feel better. The announcer said the band had recently played at the Paris Opera House. Miller wasn’t there, though. A casualty of the war, he died the previous December. His plane went down in fog over the English Channel. He was traveling between concerts meant to cheer the troops. The announcer playing the recording reported that it was the first time popular music had been played in the Opera House. Too bad Glenn wasn’t around to enjoy it.

The news followed. My mood deteriorated even though there were signs of encouragement from the front. Piled on top of reports of how many people were being killed I had thoughts of being responsible for another baby and worry about my sister. But here I was, reading my magazine.

The next week Thomas and I walked and talked, as usual, every day. He knew I was glad the Allies were winning in Europe, but not much was happening to give me hope for my sister.

On Monday, the nineteenth, he assured me the battle for Iwo Jima, which started that day, was of great significance. It went on for weeks. Every day we heard about how many more soldiers were killed; not how important it was.

“It must be important,” Thomas insisted. “It’s a sacred offering to pay so costly a price for freedom.”

On Tuesday, the twentieth, the news continued to be ongoing fighting everywhere. The US did sink some German submarines, but my mood was also sinking. Truthfully, my faith was thinner than a hair at that point. In places my hair was nonexistent. Beulah was sure now that we would have a baby before Christmas. Peace looked to be close, but the war had been dragging on for four years. No one could promise when it would end. Orders at GE were steady. That didn’t speak of peace. One day Thomas shook my worries out of me.

“Al, you know we’re winning the war, right? What is it that’s keeping you so grouchy and glum? I know you worry about your sister, but lately you seem to be lower than one of those German U-boats we’ve been sinking.”

“Oh, just daily stuff.”

“Come on, Al. It’s more than the daily routine. People are noticing. You aren’t your usual self.”

“My hairline’s receding. And it’s thinning. I’m thirty-five years old, already an old man.”

He laughed and studied the top of my head in the sun’s low light to confirm the validity of my complaint. 

“Yes, I see the hair on top of your head is as thin as your hope,” he pronounced seriously. “But I also see your handsome wave is still there in the front. Oh look, a few new hairs are sprouting. Why Al, there’s life in you, yet!”

“Thomas—Beulah and I are going to have another baby—before Christmas. Even if the war ends tomorrow, the economy is going to take years to recover, and Davey will never get his seven years of love, and Celeste is surely dead by now.”

“Oh, I see. All seems lost. It’s hard to face more responsibility, especially for someone you don’t know. Here’s an idea, you should name your baby. Then she, or he won’t be a stranger. That might make it worth the few hairs you’re losing.”

I didn’t agree. “Name it now? We usually wait at least eight months to do that.”

“Okay, Al. Just think about it.”

  On Wednesday, the twenty-first, the battle of Baguio began. I was grateful to hear we hadn’t given up on freeing the remainder of the Philippines whether Celeste was saved or not.

On Thursday, the twenty-second, battles seemed to be going on around the world. Germany, Iwo Jima, Manila, and Italy were the ones Thomas insisted on telling me about.

“Have you got a name, yet?” he asked that evening. 

He pressed me until I told him I’d name him Thomas.

“Might be a girl.”

“No, we’ve had three boys, one girl. Chances are it’ll be a boy. I did ask Beulah about it, though. She suggested George Edward, after her brother and mine.”

“That’s fine, if it’s a boy. What if it’s a girl?”

I didn’t answer. He stopped walking and looked straight at me. 

“Al, I think, if it’s a girl, you should name your daughter Celeste Rose, to honor your sister, whether she’s dead or alive.”

I felt a thud in my chest. It was the rightness of it that hit me, hard. I had told him at some point that my sister’s legal name was Rose Celeste. I wasn’t sure what Beulah would think of his idea.

When the house was quiet that night, I asked Beulah what we should name the baby if it turned out to be a girl. I could never have guessed her answer.

“I don’t know how you would feel about this, but you know I’ve been reading Leslie the books about Babar the elephant king? Well, Babar’s wife’s name is Celeste. Every time I read her name, I feel drawn to it. Naturally, I also think of Sister Celeste and all of our prayers for her. The story book name just seems like a sign, even though it’s the name of an elephant queen. I hope Celeste is alive, but either way I think we should name a girl Celeste.”

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. I hadn’t told her about my last conversation with Thomas. Maybe it was a sign. She believed in signs. I felt some heaviness go out of me. I couldn’t wait to see Thomas the next day. I wanted to tell him that Beulah and I were both feeling better about a new baby, girl or boy and that I felt more hopeful about my sister being alive. But for the first time since I’d met him, Thomas wasn’t at work.

It was Thursday, February twenty-third. I got home late and hurried into the house to catch the six-forty-five radio broadcast. It was a big news day. Soldiers on Iwo Jima had raised the American flag. A photographer got pictures of it and the reporter assured the listening audience photos were on the way to the US. Iwo Jima was secure! Sadly, the fighting still didn’t end for weeks.

The second story that evening was more dramatic and important to me. There had been a daring raid on Los Banos Internment Camp south of Manila, deep behind enemy lines. American paratroopers, infantry, and Filipino resistance fighters acted together at dawn. They took two thousand prisoners to freedom in amphibius tractors called amtracs. War correspondents had little other information to report. They were told there were hardly any casualties, and Nuns and priests were seen among those set free. I followed that story carefully for weeks as details trickled in. No list of survivors was published until much later.

At the end of March, our prayers were answered. We got a personally typed and signed letter from Celeste dated February twenty-fourth. She hadn’t been harmed. She and the other prisoners stayed alive on a steady diet of wormy rice. She personally saw the parachutes drifting out of the sky, like angels, she said. That rescue is still considered one of the finest missions of its type in the war.

We continued to pray for an end to the war through April. We were rewarded on May 9 when VE Day, Victory in Europe, was declared. Church bells rang across the US. Three more months passed. On September second VJ Day, Victory in Japan, was declared. Church bells again rang in celebration, and the world gave thanks.

A month later, October second—Guardian Angel Day—our own little Celeste was born into a world no longer at war. In the news that day, we heard that the United Kingdom ratified the United Nations Charter. I looked at our baby, wrapped warm, safe, and peaceful and felt more hope for the future than I had for a long time.

I never saw Thomas again. I did ask, several times, at GE’s personnel office, but they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, release personal information about G.A. Thomas. That made me wonder, again, was he a spy? I remembered how keen he was to join his brothers overseas and wondered, did his dad finally release him to help overseas with the clean-up actions? Skirmishes continued long after the official end of the war.

On December twenty-fifth, there was a transportation crisis. Thousands of soldiers, released from duty, swarmed home from battlefields. Every train and bus was overcrowded. Soldiers were intent on celebrating Christmas with loved ones. My family turned in early that night, except for baby Celeste. I sat by the lighted Christmas tree, rocking her. I thought about all that had happened, so far, in 1945. I missed Thomas. He had kept me from losing hope. The last time I saw him he smiled and, like always, said, “See you later, Al.” The following morning my sister was rescued by what she called “angels” from the sky. Suddenly, it dawned on me—Thomas’ initials that he didn’t use, G. A., stood for Guardian Angel.

This is a creative non-fiction story. Thomas is a literary creation, pure fiction. The other individuals and war facts are historical reality and as accurate as I can write them. Times listed for events are the day they occurred, although Al and Beulah wouldn’t have actually gotten the news for days or in some cases weeks afterwards. Sister Celeste was back in the states for a short visit in 1946. She returned to the Philippines. and supervised the construction of Maryknoll College in Quizon City.

Several books were written about the raid on Los Banos.

A History Channel documentary, Rescue at Dawn: the Los Banos Raid, came out in 2004.

Facts have been obtained from

AI online: news reports

https://warfarehistorynetwork.com/article/los-banos-raid-wwiis-finest-allied-mission/

Personal papers, memories, and best guesses