by Iris Yang
The men around Danny lifted his tall frame from the hard packed ground.
The American moaned again.
“Steady,” Birch called out as they moved.
“The bed” was just a layer of straw running along either side of the narrow room. There wasn’t anything else in the cell except two wooden buckets.
“How about some water?” Zhou Ming offered after they set the wounded man down.
“Yes, water...”
The officer dipped a canteen cup into a bucket and handed it to Birch. Threading his left arm under Danny’s neck, Birch lifted his upper body to allow him to drink. Even this small movement made the American cringe.
“Too bad we don’t have a stick,” said Mr. Ding. “It’ll help it to heal faster if his leg is immobilized.”
“Where can we—?”
“Wait until tomorrow. It’ll be School Boy’s turn. He might be willing to find a couple of sticks for us,” the captain cut in.
“School Boy?”
“A young guard. He’s not as mean as the others,” Mr. Ding explained. “He just graduated from high school. I overheard him talking. I understand some Japanese.”
“Meanwhile, is there anything to reduce his pain?” Birch asked.
Everyone shook their heads.
“I know a bit about acupuncture, but we don’t have a needle.” Mr. Ding hesitated. “I can try….” Picking up Danny’s left hand, he pressed on the valley-like depression between the thumb and index finger. “This meridian point is good for releasing pain, particularly in the head and the abdomen.” He applied gentle pressure with his thumb, holding it flat on the spot, and then kneading in a circular motion. “It won’t be as useful as a needle. I hope—”
“Jasmine used needles,” mumbled Danny.
“Does it help?” Peering through his damaged glasses, Mr. Ding addressed his patient.
“Like a charm.”
But Birch knew that it really didn’t help, at least not much. He could feel Danny’s hand clutching his as tightly as before. “Tell me how to do it,” he asked the teacher.
Mr. Ding showed him where the meridian point was located. Birch applied pressure on the spot until their dinner arrived—if gray-colored watery rice could be called dinner.
As soon as they finished eating, Birch grabbed Danny’s arm again.
“No need,” the American whispered. “It doesn’t help much.”
Birch stared at his best friend. He knew how it felt because he’d broken his leg while rock-climbing. It had taken him two months in a cast before he could put weight on the fractured leg. “Mr. Ding says it’s good for a headache.” He gestured to the wound on Danny’s forehead. His own temple bloomed with a livid bruise from the butt of a rifle; the rest of his face was mottled with bumps and contusions.
Danny closed his eyes. He was drained. The injuries had sapped his strength.
Birch held his brother’s hand and never stopped kneading the meridian point, even after Danny fell asleep. Only in the wee hours did he surrender to his own exhaustion and doze off. In his slumber, he heard explosions and wondered whether it was real or just a dream.
Chapter 3
Birch was jolted awake by a loud commotion. He sat up from the pile of hay on which he’d slept and made circles with his head to work out the stiffness in his neck. His temple had stopped throbbing, but it was still sore and would probably remain discolored for days. Rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands, he strained to see. The first light of dawn barely lit the room.
“Ike. Ike. Go! Get out. Now,” a short Japanese barked in passable Chinese as he herded the prisoners out of the cell. Dark bushy brows shaded his slanted eyes. A well-trimmed toothbrush mustache hovered between his stubby nose and thin lips.
In a daze, Birch took hold of Danny’s arm, trying to lift him.
“Not him. He is useless,” yelled the Japanese. He stepped closer, yanking Birch away from the American. When he encountered resistance, he hissed a vile curse and tugged harder.
A feral gleam in the eye of the Japanese put Birch on guard, but he kept his tone neutral and stood his ground. “I have to take him with me.”
The Chinese pilot’s statement enraged the little man. After bellowing and pulling a few times without success, he drew his pistol from his holster and pointed at Birch’s head. His eyes opened wide, and there was madness in them. Disobedience wasn’t tolerated in prison. “If you do not go, now, I will blow a hole in your face.”
Birch didn’t flinch. “I’m not going anywhere without him.” He tried to lift Danny again.
“Baka,” bawled the Japanese, waving his arm and cursing, his thin lips shiny with spit and saliva. The prisoner was trying his patience, and he wasn’t a patient man. His flat face twisted as he switched his aim and placed the ugly black muzzle on the center of Danny’s forehead.
“Don’t!” said Mr. Ding, speaking Japanese. “He’s new. He doesn’t understand you. We’ll go now.” He bowed to the Japanese officer.
“Go!” Danny urged Birch.
“They’re just taking us to work,” said Zhou Ming, dragging Birch toward the door. “Danny can’t do it. Don’t worry, Major. We’ll be back.”
Reluctantly, Birch moved as he kept his gaze fixed on Danny.
Three years ago, along with his sister and cousin, he’d rescued this Flying Tiger. The life-and-death experience had bonded them, and they’d become best friends and sworn brothers. Leaving his wounded brother lying on the prison floor was the last thing Birch wanted to do. Only Danny’s firm nod gave him strength to keep moving.
The Japanese soldier forced them outside where sixty other prisoners milled about. Surrounded by a barbed-wire fence, this small camp looked bleak—the ground was covered with dirt and loose gravel without a single tree or plant in sight. Near a wooden gate, a watchtower loomed. On top of a wooden pole, a Rising Sun flag flapped in the chilly breeze.
“What are we going to do?” asked Birch in a low voice. Mr. Ding raised his narrow shoulders in a shrug as they passed through the gate.
Amid a crowd of dreary-eyed, haggard men, Birch took stock of his surroundings. They were walking on an uneven road just wide enough for vehicles. He could see no landmark, only dense forests and hills that dominated the mountainous area in Yunnan Province. The sun was barely above the horizon. Except for a few wispy pink clouds, the sky was cobalt blue. The June morning was fragrant with the rich odor of earth and wildflowers. A chorus of birds sang in the woods.
For twenty minutes they trudged along. Then Birch let out a low whistle. He’d spotted patches of blue flowers, their petals covered with dew drops lit by the warm sunlight like hundreds of sparkling diamonds.
“Forget-me-nots are pretty.” Mr. Ding covered his mouth to muffle his voice.
“No,” Birch blurted out, and then corrected himself. “I mean yes. But it’s more than that. It can heal wounds.” Danny had been saved by Jasmine Bai, Birch’s cousin; one of the herbs she’d used was the precious forget-me-nots.
Slowly, Birch edged toward the side of the group. A few steps later he turned, scanned his surroundings to make sure that no guard was watching. But before he could pick the flowers, he heard a sharp cry.
He whirled round. In disbelief, he saw Mr. Ding being beaten. The young teacher crouched down, his hands protecting his head, as a stocky Japanese guard punched and kicked him. A few blue flowers lay scattered at his feet.
Birch felt responsible. He took several huge steps forward and, bending down, he tried to shield the young man. Just then, something hissed behind him. Before he could react, he felt a blistering pain down his back. It took his breath away.
He spun round, assuming a fight stance. His hands curled into fists, ready to strike.
“Don’t!” someone shouted. The low but firm voice bolted Birch into place. “No fighting! He’ll kill you.”
Birch caught sight of Captain Zhang standing behind the Japanese who raised the whip again. The captain stood still, his fac
e stern, head shaking slightly. His hands balled into fists at his sides as he forcibly suppressed his rage.
With all the willpower he could muster, Birch dropped his hands but stood defiantly facing the mustachioed Japanese. His fiery stare remained on the enemy’s eyes.
“Bow!” The Japanese sent the whip whizzing through the air. “Do not look at me in the face, you pig!”
Birch sucked in a sharp breath. The whip cracked across his face, neck, and chest, setting his flesh on fire and cutting a bloody gash under his left eye. The unexpected power caught him off guard, and he fell on one knee.
Born in the Year of the Tiger, Birch had been trained as a warrior. His instinct was to fight back. Not being able to do so violated his soldierly pride. He struggled to stand.
“Baka! Baka!” The Japanese growled and slapped Birch across the face with an open palm. The Chinese pilot’s defiance infuriated him. Again and again, he struck Birch with both hands. The hostile intensity behind his eyes was more than evident. He was determined to teach this new prisoner a lesson.
The humiliation was too much to swallow.
Although his father, a general in the Chinese Air Force, had never spoiled him, Birch was born a respected young master in the upper class. No one had ever raised a hand to him. Even though life as a fighter pilot was tough and many of his missions were death-defying, an airman belonged to a prestigious group—only highly educated young men, some with impressive family backgrounds, had the chance to join.
To a proud fighter, the maltreatment was worse than death. He struggled to stand up again.
“Stay down, you fool! Don’t give him an excuse to kill you.” The captain’s sotto voce warned him again. So Birch clenched his fists and dug his nails into his palms. It took all his strength to tolerate the ill-treatment.
I could strangle this midget with my bare hands. He was more than a foot taller than the Japanese and had the lean and powerful build of a natural athlete. But then what? Plenty of armed soldiers surrounded them, sabers drawn and rifles fixed with bayonets. If he were alone, he would fight to the death. But he wasn’t alone. He couldn’t let Danny face a senseless death.
Grinding his teeth and setting his jaw, Birch fought to stay on his knee. His cheeks were swelling with red and purple welts. His ears were ringing. His nose was bleeding, and he could taste the blood, bitter and sharp.
Steeling himself for more pain and degradation, he suddenly heard Mr. Ding crying. Then the teacher’s husky voice spoke in Japanese. Birch didn’t know what Mr. Ding was saying, but it sounded like the man was pleading. A few more hits, and the guards stopped. “Ike. Ike. Go!” they yelled at the prisoners and waved their arms.
Birch stood up, wiping the blood from his mouth and nose. He spotted Mr. Ding slumped on the ground. Stepping closer, he pulled the young teacher to his feet.
The blue flowers scattered around them were tempting, but Birch curbed the impulse to pick them up. The short Japanese gave him a hefty shove in the back, and as if reading his mind, stepped on the delicate forget-me-nots. His thin lips pressed together in a smirk. Fixing his stare on Birch’s eyes, he dug the sole of his boot into the ground and crushed the flowers. “Go!” he barked again and jabbed his index finger forward.
By then the rising sun had spread its glow over the mountainside.
Chapter 4
They marched for another twenty minutes. A number of large craters in the middle of the road blocked their path. Birch guessed that either the Nationalist Army or the Communist guerillas had done the damage. The Japanese ordered them to repair the road. A vehicle covered with camouflaged netting brought the tools. Some prisoners received handmade baskets. A few older men got spades and shovels, but the others had to use their bare hands.
Birch secured the basket full of rocks with both hands. The weight bent his upper body forward. The rough basket made of twigs and vines scraped the welts on his back, opening the wounds. Blood stained his uniform. Before long, he was drenched with perspiration. The salty sweat stabbed at his wounds like a thousand pinpricks.
Once a crater was filled, they were ordered to smooth the road using a heavy stone roller, which was normally pulled by oxen. Now two dozen men were forced to tow the roller with straps fastened over their shoulders.
Birch leaned forward, pushing on the balls of his feet. With the guards breathing down their necks, he struggled to get the heavy wheel turning. The rough strap bit into his chest. The pain was impossible to ignore, but he ploughed onward.
The chilly morning gradually grew warmer. The prisoners worked non-stop for hours under a broiling sun that leeched their energy and made Birch feel like his skin had been lit by a torch. By noon they’d repaired half the damage and were allowed a fifteen-minute break. Lunch was a cold rice ball the size of a small onion.
Birch was hungry; his stomach grumbled. And he was dying of thirst; they had not been given any water. His lips were split and chapped, his throat parched. His left cheek was inflamed so badly that it had turned his eye as narrow as a sewing needle. He winced as he nibbled the rice ball.
“You’d better eat it. The only meat you’ll ever have here.” Sitting next to Birch on a rock, Mr. Ding pointed to the yellow maggots in the rice. “Welcome to hell’s dining room.”
“What did you say to the Jap earlier?” Birch asked, moistening the cut on his lip with the tip of his tongue.
“I told the bastard that the flowers were for him.” The teacher gave a lopsided grin, one corner of his lips split. His forehead was discolored with bruises.
“I’m sorry.”
Mr. Ding waved a hand. “You know, there are plenty of forget-me-nots in our backyard.”
“Really?”
The young teacher bobbed his head, then his mouth curved into a frown. “Too bad we don’t have a way of getting them.”
“No fighting back.” Captain Zhang interrupted the conversation. He was sitting on the other side of Birch. “No heroes here,” he reiterated. “This is hell. No hero will ever walk out of here alive, only survivors. Understand?”
“Captain Zhang is right,” Mr. Ding agreed. “Jackal killed a couple of officers in cold blood just a month ago. One of them picked some wild berries. He was hungry. He didn’t even get a chance to eat them. Jackal beat him ruthlessly.”
“Jackal?”
“The one who hit you. We gave him the nickname. Unfortunately, he’s in charge here.”
“That midget?”
“Don’t think less of him because of his size. He’s the cruelest of the cruel. I overheard that his father and two brothers died during the war. He’s taking his revenge on us.”
Birch nodded.
“Anyway, another officer stepped up, trying to protect his colleague. They were buddies. Jackal shot the officer in the face right before us then turned around and continued to punish the hapless fellow. The poor guy died the next morning.”
Birch closed his eyes for a moment as anger gnawed at him.
“Do whatever you must to survive. Subdue your soldierly pride. To the Japs, we’re nobody.” Mr. Ding cited a proverb. “‘A great man knows when to yield and when not to.’ Don’t rebel every chance you get. It’s like an egg striking a rock, only to cause its own destruction.”
Birch stuffed the last bit of rice ball into his mouth. “What happened to your nails?” he asked, regarding the captain’s hand holding the food. The guerilla leader had no nails on his fingers.
Captain Zhang shrugged.
“Japs pulled them off, one by one, with pliers,” said Mr. Ding. “Captain Zhang has never told the Japs anything, no matter how much they tortured him.”
Brutality like this wasn’t news. Birch knew how the Japanese had tortured and raped Jasmine after she refused to give up Danny. If they’d treated an innocent girl with such cruelty, they were capable of anything. Pulling out nails shouldn’t shock him, yet he felt chilled.
The victim was a communist, and Birch worked for the Nationalists, yet he couldn’
t help but feel sympathy for the bearded captain. In an instant, the guerilla leader gained Birch’s respect. Captain Zhang was famous. Years ago the Japanese had put a price on his head after he and his group had conducted many skirmishes, ambushes, and moonlight raids.
“They forced hot spicy soup down Mr. Ding’s throat,” the captain grumbled. “They know he’s a teacher and his voice is important to him.”
“Yes, they know how to hurt a person.” Mr. Ding scowled.
Birch sat upright. He let out a gasp. “What might they do to Danny?” He regretted leaving his wounded brother behind. But what could he have done? If he’d insisted on staying, the only outcome would have been a beating or even death, probably his and Danny’s.
“Don’t worry too much, Major,” said Zhou Ming. “I’ve been here for a month. They’ve never interrogated me.” He seemed both relieved and embarrassed. That explained why his clothes were cleaner and he looked healthier than the others.
“So no one will know where we are?”
“That’s right. This is a secret jail for political prisoners.” Except for a few Nationalist Army officers, most prisoners were in plain clothes.
“Then why bother to keep us here?”
“Maybe they’ll need information from us later. Perhaps trade us for their POWs one day. Or use us as human shields…”
With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Birch spent the rest of the afternoon worrying about Danny and praying that his brother would be okay.
Chapter 5
As soon as they returned to their cell, Birch rushed toward the American. “Danny?” he called out. “Are you all right?” He checked him up and down to find a sign of further injury.
Danny opened his eyes, a wide grin breaking the craggy angles of his bruised face. Then his smile vanished. “What happened?”
