Warriors in the Crossfire

by Nancy Bo Flood

  Kento slid his hand along the smooth wood of the spear until he got to its throat.

  “Watch for the beak. When you can see the nostrils, drive the spear deep into the neck and hold onto it until I lift the turtle up to the canoe. Don’t lean over the side. Don’t tip the canoe.” I dipped my paddle into the water and pulled, redirecting the canoe’s course. “Ready?”

  Kento nodded. His knuckles were white. On my first hunt my fingers became numb. I wasn’t afraid of the turtle or the sharks but of falling into the sea and sinking too deep to ever swim back up. The sea had swallowed many men from our village.

  Shapes appeared beneath the rippled surface. Shadows of fish darted by so fast I wasn’t sure which were real and which imagined.

  Kento pointed. A dark shape glided toward us. A hawksbill turtle bobbed to the surface just an arm’s length away.

  “Look at the size of its shell! It must be very old and strong.” It was hard to only whisper; I wanted to shout, but the turtle would hear my voice and disappear. “This is a good omen, Kento. Wait, watch, then throw hard!”

  The turtle drifted closer. Its hooked nose dipped upward, the nostrils flared open. A movement distracted my focus. Did I imagine the shadow following behind?

  I blinked and looked again. There was nothing.

  Kento raised his spear, ready to throw.

  I saw it again. A dark gray shadow followed just below the surface. A fin sliced the water.

  “Stop!”

  Kento’s spear flew fast and straight. Blood spurted. “I did it!” Kento yelled. In the same instant he lost his balance and fell forward. The canoe rocked.

  “Don’t move! Lie still.” The outrigger tipped far to one side, then back to the other. Kento rolled, grabbed the edge, leaned against it to pull himself up.

  “Stay down. Don’t move.”

  “But the turtle—”

  “No!”

  Splash! Kento fell into the water. I grabbed for his arm. “Kento!”

  He was gone, out of sight. A thin line of blood oozed toward the boat. “Kento!” As the dark water splashed and churned, my eyes searched. Where was the shark? The turtle? Where was Kento?

  A dark head popped up. Kento windmilled with both arms, spat, coughed, and gulped air, splashing wildly.

  “Kick. Grab my hand.” I reached as far as I could without tipping the canoe.

  Kento clutched my fingers, then slipped and fell back. I stuck out the paddle. “Kick. Reach. Grab on!” But then I saw it again, the gray shadow, a fin, circling. “Behind you! Watch out! Punch it. Now, Kento, now!”

  Kento turned but, like the turtle, was blinded by the sunlight.

  I dove at the fin, my arms straight out, hands fisted. I struck. The shark turned and swam over me, pushing me down. It circled, ready to attack from above and sink its teeth into its prey. I punched blindly. It pushed me deeper. I kicked, not caring at what. The shark twisted away, then disappeared.

  My lungs burned. The surface swirled far above. Below was blackness. An endless dark pit. I wanted to scream, to touch the light, but my eyes stung from the saltwater, and I began to sink. I pulled and kicked against the water, fighting to swim upward. The shimmer of light grew brighter. But far overhead. I kicked, struggled. My head broke above water, and I gulped sweet, wonderful air.

  Kento was screaming. “Joseph, I can’t swim much longer. I can’t reach the boat.” Where was he?

  I twisted around and reached toward his voice. He grabbed onto my head and hung on, pulling me under. I yanked loose. “No. We’ll both drown. Hold my shoulder and kick.” Kento reached again. I could feel his weight, but as soon as he began kicking, we thrust forward. “Yes, that’s right. Kick hard. We’ll make it back.”

  Kento kicked. I pulled with my arms until we were alongside the canoe.

  “Reach for the edge and hold on. Pull yourself up while I push from behind. When you can lean over the edge, kick and flip yourself in.”

  Kento landed with a thunk. The boat rocked, its sides slapping the water’s surface. Kento began coughing, choking, vomiting water. I clung to the canoe and breathed, waiting for the strength to pull myself back into the canoe. “Kento, I’m coming in. Lean away. Don’t let the canoe tip.”

  “Yes. I’m ready.”

  Once in the canoe, I began shaking—arms, legs, my whole body. I couldn’t stop. Nausea filled me. I leaned over the side, threw up, then lay flat in the bottom of the canoe.

  The sun slowly warmed my skin and chest, and finally the terrible chill deep inside me. The sea rocked the canoe, and the waves sang, slap-slapping against the sides. My breathing slowed. We were both alive.

  I sat up. “You did it, Kento. You hunted turtle.”

  Kento sat slouched over, his head down. “My fear was too large. I nearly drowned us both.”

  “No. You hunted turtle.”

  “I am ashamed.”

  “You were afraid, but you did it. Someday we’ll come back. The turtles will be here, and we’ll come back.”

  Kento would not look at me. He stared at the horizon.

  I picked up the paddle and turned the canoe around. “It’s late. We need to get back before my father starts looking for me.”

  I paddled hard and fast. Kento stared ahead at the island. He said nothing until we were back over the reef skimming toward the cove. Then he whispered, “I apologize, Joseph. Thank you for saving my life.”

  I shook my head. “You have no reason to feel shame. The shark left quickly. My fist must have scared him.” I tried to smile, but still saw the pit of dark sea that had been below me.

  “When a samurai fails, he brings dishonor and shame to himself and his family. Shame is worse than death. That is our samurai code.”

  “You fought to survive, Kento. You fought like a warrior.” I grew quiet. I had often felt shame, too. I knew words did not take away its sting.

  The outrigger slid through the shallow water onto the beach. “Jump out and stay back in the trees. We’ll talk tomorrow after school.”

  Kento leaped out, turned toward me, and bowed. “You are a true warrior. You risked your life to teach me your strength.” He bowed again. A lone figure was walking toward us.

  “Leave. Hurry!”

  •

  My father’s straight back and steady stride were unmistakable. As always, he held his head high. He was tall and slight, unlike most of the village men who were wide-shouldered and broad-chested. They were men who could paddle a canoe all day without tiring or carry a bundle of coconuts for miles. My father, our village chief and clan leader, was not big, but he was quick and strong. When he led the warriors’ dance, no one could leap as high or twist and strike as fast, and no one’s eyes sparkled brighter.

  Now his eyes were dark. I was in trouble. The new Japanese rules forbade us—any native—to use a canoe or fish outside the lagoon. We were all suspected of being spies, of sending information to the American military. We were not allowed to have a radio—none—in the entire village. No newspapers. Nothing printed. Each week brought new restrictions, earlier curfews, more arrests.

  The closer my father approached, the faster my heart raced. I expected anything, even a blow. But my father’s eyes showed only sadness. His face seemed tired. I stood straight, hands clenched, and did not look away.

  He stepped closer. Flies whined around my ears, and my skin itched from the dried sea salt, but I did not move. Why didn’t he say something? He stared, studying every inch of me.

  “Joseph, have I taught you nothing?” He shook his head. “You risked your life and Kento’s. You endangered both his family and ours. If you had been seen, you could have been arrested. All of us, our entire family, arrested and shot. Kento, too, his entire family—mother and father, even his sister, Ako, shot!”

  I looked down, my heart pounding. A ghost crab tossed sand up out of its hole. Tiny shells moved as hermit crabs crept toward the tiny pools of water around my toes.

  “Go home, Joseph. Your mother and
sister need your help. Do not touch this canoe again.” He turned and left.

  I kicked at the sand. Seawater seeped into the crude pit, and I kicked again and stared at the reef. Surf leaped and crashed against the distant coral. The surf was not afraid—of soldiers or war or stupid rules—and I would not be, either. I had paddled over that reef. I closed my eyes and saw the flared nostrils, the hooked beak. I felt the darkness pulling me down, but I had fought for life and air and light. I would not fear war.

  TEACHER

  Young bamboo,

  Bend.

  Survive

  Typhoon winds.

  Next morning at dawn I hurried to Garapan, to school. The walk was long and hot, but I could not risk arriving after the final bell. I ran. The Japanese government allowed only a few native students to continue past the first three years of classes. I had been chosen as one of them. I would learn to speak proper Japanese even if they thought a native boy could only become a well-trained servant.

  I had waited for Kento at our meeting place but he never showed up. Yesterday after the hunt I hadn’t seen him—or my father—the rest of the day. Father had spent the afternoon at the Uut, the men’s meetinghouse, discussing, arguing, debating the war … all evening and into the night. My father sat cross-legged at the head post. Next year, once I turned fourteen, I would be expected to sit behind him and listen respectfully, never speaking. I was in no hurry to do that; I’d rather hunt octopus in the lagoon. The war talk was endless. Go ahead, Japanese and Americans, greedy bullies, battle it out and leave so we can have our island back.

  A group of soldiers marched by. Something was different about them. These soldiers did not soften their grim, straight-ahead stares for an instant. Even the ones I knew did not nod or smile. They wore their usual full-legged, khaki uniforms. Another group approached, eight soldiers marching two by two. Each soldier carried a rifle. As they passed, pedestrians stepped back. Businessmen on bikes braked and stopped. There was no friendly chatter; no laughter came from women holding little ones and shopping baskets.

  Where was Kento? He always knew the latest news about battles or maneuvers in the Pacific, information no one was supposed to know, especially me. His father was an administrator in a Japanese office in Garapan, at military headquarters. Recent reports were grim. The Japanese were losing important battles. The Americans were pushing the Imperial forces farther and farther back … toward Japan … toward us.

  News and rumors spread by mouth faster than any wire could carry it. To be found with a forbidden radio or newspaper meant death by beheading. Or death for disobeying any of their rules which bite-by-bite had taken away our island, our way of life, like a shark tearing apart a turtle.

  An eerie silence followed me as I rushed the last few blocks to school. Kento was not waiting by the school’s front gate. I hurried through, past the oldest students, all Japanese, all neat and tidy in their white shirts and long pants. They frowned or ignored me, the unwelcome native.

  Kento sat at his desk, practicing sums on his abacus. He would not look up. What was going on? I slid into my seat at the back of the room, last row, middle desk. The rest of the students hurried in with none of the usual teasing and joking. All faces were serious, eyes looking down. Our teacher, our Sensei, stood watching from behind his desk. Four soldiers entered. They stopped at the front of the room, turned and saluted Sensei.

  We stood and bowed low.

  The soldiers stood in a perfect, straight line, four khaki copies, each with a single bright gold star on his cap. Eight dark eyes stared straight ahead, hard as stone.

  The first soldier stepped toward us, then spoke, “Sit down.” We sat in unison. “Listen carefully. No interruptions. No questions.”

  No one even dared to breathe.

  “By Imperial command, orders of the Divine Emperor, all schools on this island are closed.”

  I did not look up.

  His clipped words continued. “You are to go home. Immediately.”

  I did not move.

  The soldier turned to our gentle Sensei and saluted. “Report to military headquarters for further instructions.”

  Sensei bowed, eyes lowered, silent. I kept my own head bowed, hoping my dark skin and wild hair would not be noticed. Don’t draw attention.

  The soldiers saluted, turned, and marched out. Their heavy black boots stomped on the cement floor. Gone. My ears hurt from listening. Outside a kingfisher squawked as if daring someone to shoot. Trade winds rattled through coconut branches, their tall slender palms swishing at the long rifles and gleaming bayonets.

  Outside the school more orders were barked. Soldiers cried, “Great is our Emperor. Great are the Imperial forces. Invincible is Nippon, Japan, land of the Rising Sun. Victory forever!”

  FRIENDS

  Rafalawash

  And Rapaganor

  Navigators from Satawal,

  Pulawat, Yap,

  Lamotreck,

  Elato.

  Warriors of the sea.

  Sensei slapped a bamboo stick against his desk. “Be seated.”

  We sat.

  “Listen carefully.”

  Slap! Another swift whack of bamboo against desk. “Gather your belongings, prepare to leave.” Sensei looked away. His face looked tense and deeply sad. Another slap of bamboo, but this time a soft whack. Then a long pause. He coughed, cleared his throat, looked not at us but at some distant place. His next words were barely audible. “My students, go home. Speak to no one. Be careful, Kiotsu-ketsay, be careful. … Obey.” His final word felt like a heavy stone sinking into a dark, deep pool.

  The older students bowed and exited. The rest of us scrambled to our feet and bowed in unison. Sensei returned our sign of respect and looked from face to face as we filed out.

  I stared at the back of Kento’s head, urging him to turn around. Kento’s mother is Rafalawash, from our clan. But his father is from Japan. He is the son of a Japanese citizen, and that makes all the difference between us. I am the son of a chief, a descendant of the ocean navigators of the islands Satawal, Pulawat, Lamotreck, Elato. But to the Japanese, we are all the same, we are natives, barbaric outsiders, gai-jin.

  Why wouldn’t he look at me? We have always been friends, even as little children. Japanese were never supposed to mix with natives, even before the soldiers patrolled the beach, but Kento and I were born in the same year, the same month, and our mothers are sisters. As kids we met every evening after chores at a tiny cove near our village. Fast as possible, I raced from our thatched hut to the beach, then headed north to the cove. There I dove into the warm, clear water and swam silent as a shark to the far side. Kento always waited there, having zigzagged down the rocky knoll from his cement-block house.

  The cove was ours. Tucked inside an inlet that hugged a steep cliff, we caught ghost crabs and searched for smooth flat stones to skip. We wrestled, threw sticks at imaginary sea monsters, and when the sky became black, we flopped down on the wet, cool sand and stared at the stars.

  Once, when we were small, Kento had said, “Someday, Joseph, I am going to Japan to study at a real university. Like my father. I will become an engineer and build an airplane that will fly to the moon. Maybe you can come with me.”

  “Maybe to the university, but not to the moon.”

  “Why not?”

  “I will come back here and build a school. The finest in the Pacific.”

  “A school?”

  “A school like yours. Then my people can learn everything. Like you do, but even more. Then this island will be ours again.”

  “Japan will not allow it.”

  “You will never go to the moon.”

  We wrestled again. Afterward we lay on our backs, breathing hard, not saying anything, knowing it was time to go home. We never spoke of it, but we never forgot—even for a moment—Kento is Japanese and I am not.

  Someone coughed. Feet shuffled past. I had forgotten. Our school was closed. Forbidden to reopen until … until when? Un
til it was too late for me? Kento hurried past. I raised my eyebrows. He hesitated, glanced at me, arched his eyebrows in reply. We would meet at Sa’dog Tasi, river to the sea, where the trees grow thick and tall—coconut palms, mango, and breadfruit, an impenetrable curtain of green. Within their safety, we would meet.

  FORBIDDEN

  This is not a game.

  I slowed my steps. I would meet Kento, but I did not need to hurry. Sensei was the last to leave. He walked up to me, shook his head. Looking into my eyes, he said, “Joseph, remember. Think before you act; never give any dog reason to bite.” Sensei’s tall, thin frame looked frail and defeated as he bowed, then walked away.

  I bowed farewell. Thoughts swirled in my mind.

  I only wanted to learn the secrets of the Japanese—how to read kanji, the picture words, how to write the official papers to buy or sell land, how to send the abacus beads flying so I someday could demand: you must pay this much to grow your sugar cane on our land and use our water.

  Alone in the courtyard, I hesitated, looked from wall to wall. Last week, I had struck Sato-san, a senior student. He and his friends had been laughing about the women in our clan, how they dress, wearing only a skirt. Sato-san insulted my sister, laughing and joking about how he saw “her ripe mangoes” as she walked from town. Sensei should have reported me to the police, but he had not.

  Sensei had not sent me home. If he had, I would never have been allowed to return. Instead he gave me twenty-five lashes. I watched my blood drip onto the white coral-dust floor. I knew Sensei should have expelled me. He had the right to beat me as long as he chose, even to death. It had happened to native students at other Japanese schools.

  “Hold out your arms. Hold them straight out.” Sensei had placed a heavy brick on each palm. “Hold these this entire day. If you show anger at this school again, leave and never return.”

  Alone now in this courtyard, once again I held my arms out, looked at my empty hands, pressed them against the wall, and felt strong. Sensei had given me another chance. I would not fail him.