Warriors in the Crossfire

by Nancy Bo Flood

  “I walked slowly at first. My hair loose. Then I ran, how fast I ran.”

  “Ran, from what?”

  “Oh, Joseph, that is the game, the chase. Who will run so fast to catch me? Only one, only Ignacio.”

  “And then the game is over?”

  “Oh no, Joseph, it was just beginning. …”

  My face grew hot. I looked away.

  “Open a coconut,” Anna Maria said.

  I looked at the small stack of coconuts, picked the best one, a green one, and whacked it open with the machete. My sister scooped out a handful of the sweet jelly inside, Taeyo’s favorite. “My son, come here.”

  She placed the soft coconut in Taeyo’s open hand, then asked, “The book Joseph reads to you, what does it say?”

  “Important words.”

  “Show me.”

  Taeyo looked at me, eyebrows raised, asking. One quick raise of my own eyebrows and he scrambled to my mat, reached under, and showed his mother the last page we had read.

  I stared at the clear, bright sky. Not one cloud. Think like a warrior, Joseph. The grotto. Go there. Fill the gourds. Bring water home. I shook my head. Home. This hole had become our home.

  A branch snapped. Something moved below. Leaves brushed against branches. Rats? They scrambled constantly, everywhere, gnawing. Please let it be rats. Footsteps. Someone was scrambling up the hill. Coming closer.

  Gunfire. Shouts. Someone—the sound of footsteps running through the undergrowth below us. More shots. Shrapnel zinged against the cliff.

  Bullets ricocheted along the front of the cliff. I pushed my sister down and then rolled on top of Taeyo. More bullets splintered the rock above us.

  Soldiers shouted and crashed through the bush. More gunshots. Rocks clattered and slid. Screaming pierced the air. Then light burst. Men moaned. Smoke drifted past the entrance, curling and twisting like a snake.

  Don’t cry, little one, don’t cry, I prayed, I begged.

  Taeyo did not move, did not cry.

  My ears filled with their own ringing.

  “Mother of God, pray for us, now and at the hour of our death.” My mother’s lips moved in prayer, never making a sound; her body rocked back and forth.

  My sister lay with her arms around her son. Her backbone was a sharp ridge along the curve of her back, her limbs were so thin, and her skin, rough with dust.

  My sister, my mother, my nephew; they were barely more than dusty bones.

  They needed water.

  I waited until dark, blackened the machete blade with spit and dirt, and tied empty gourds to my waist.

  See the grotto. Go to it. I eased myself down the tree, branch by branch, listening.

  My toes touched the ground. To feel earth was wonderful—to touch green leaves, a blossom, soft soil. I walked without having to stoop, without a ceiling of stone over my head, without walls. Everything smelled fresh, green and alive!

  I hurried straight down the steep slope, listening for voices or footsteps. My ears became my eyes. Gunfire was constant. Rockets whistled overhead. Each time their high-pitched scream began, I stopped until I heard the explosion, felt the blast of light, and then I breathed out, knowing this time I was safe.

  I stumbled over something. A branch? A fallen tree? The smell of burnt flesh was strong. I felt something soft. An arm, a soldier’s body. I felt for his canteen. My fingers touched cold flesh. Vomit burned in my throat. I turned and pushed through the branches. I didn’t care who heard me. Shoot me. But I must find water. My family needs water.

  I stumbled into the ravine. The ravine! Joseph, Father had warned, stay lower. Don’t stop. Hurry. How did I miss the grotto? I climbed back up, back to the top of the ravine where the paths began. I continued straight uphill. If I could get close to the grotto, I would smell the moist cool air—water. Others would, too. Others with rifles.

  I stopped, breathing hard but listening. Yes, I could hear it. A whisper of water trickled over rock. I pushed through a curtain of vine and my fingers felt soft, moist moss. I pressed my tongue against the moss, tasted the water as it filled my mouth, swallowing again and again. I closed my eyes, rested. My father was right, water is life.

  I scraped the dried, caked mud. The flow grew stronger. One by one I filled the gourds and set them on the ground. My family would have water. I gave thanks to the spirits, “Help me return and … help Kento, Ako, all the people of our clan, and Ignacio. May no one suffer tonight from thirst.”

  I drank again and let water run down my chin and chest. I splashed my face and rubbed my eyes. I could see their faces—Ako’s pouting mouth and Kento’s frown. Did he still stare at the stars and the moon?

  Something moved through the bushes. I froze, listening. Slow, careful steps, one step and then one more. My hand touched the ground, and my fingers gripped the machete.

  “Joseph?”

  I froze. Who had spoken my name? My father? Who else? Was I crazy? I did not trust my ears, my eyes, not even my mind.

  “Joseph?”

  I lifted the machete, ready to strike. “Who are you?”

  “I’ve come as a friend, the one who hunts turtle but falls in the sea.”

  “Kento?” My throat was so dry that his name sounded like a bark.

  A figure stepped into the thin shaft of moonlight and bowed.

  “Kento, it’s really you?”

  “Joseph, it is me … your friend.”

  Was this Kento or his ghost? The face staring at me was thin and pale, but the voice—it was Kento’s voice. Still I did not move.

  He bowed again. Yes, of course, even if Kento was dying, first he would bow. This was Kento standing in front of me. I wanted to weep.

  “Joseph, I was afraid … you are alive. … You made it to the cave?”

  “What are you doing here? How did you find this place?”

  “Your father told me.”

  “My father?”

  “He came to our house before he left for the airfield. He brought me here and said to tell no one. Not even you.” Kento cleared his throat, took several breaths. “Your father knew that if the Japanese won, I could help you. But I would have to know how to find you.”

  “But he told me not to trust you. That you would choose your family … and not ours.” I remembered Kento’s betrayal, his refusal to help. “My father was right.”

  “He knew defeat was possible. If the Japanese lost … no one could imagine what would happen, no one, not your father or mine.” Kento’s voice softened. “Joseph, I am ashamed. I apologize, I failed you.” Another bow. “Now I am the one asking for help.”

  “My help?”

  “I must find the cliffs and go there, quickly. Where are they, how do I get there? Can you tell me?”

  “The cliffs to the north? But why?”

  “I went to find food. Last night. When I returned, Mother and Ako were gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “We had heard of orders to march to the cliffs. Everyone. I thought they were rumors.” Kento held his head in his hands. “The code of the samurai. Remember, Joseph, remember? Defeat … dishonor … death.”

  “Let the soldiers kill themselves.”

  “Joseph, you don’t understand. Everyone!”

  “Everyone?” I closed my eyes, refusing to believe what Kento was saying. “Everyone? Even children? Ako?”

  “I should never have left them alone. But we were so hungry.”

  “They are being taken to the cliffs? The northern cliffs? Are you sure?”

  “How do I get there? Joseph, tell me.”

  My father had warned me that the Japanese would sacrifice everything. But their own children?

  “Joseph, please. Tell me how to get there.”

  Father had warned, Stay away from this place. … Never come here again.

  “Joseph, are you deaf? I need to find them now. Tell me how to get there. Please!”

  “Kento, you will have to run, first uphill and then across the savannah. Do you have s
trength to run that far?”

  “Yes. I don’t know. I will.”

  “We will take this water to my family first. The cave is not far. I must tell them where we are going in case we don’t return. Then we will head north, make our way through the trees, stay away from the path, until we reach the cliffs.”

  “You will go with me, Joseph?”

  “I was there once, long ago.” I picked up the gourds of water, tied them to my waist. “We will find them.”

  I do not remember how we crossed the ridge of the island without getting lost or shot. In my mind I saw the ragged wall of forbidden cliffs and heard my father’s words: Stay away. I saw the precipice that plunged straight down, the place of lost spirits, of a moaning wind that never stopped. In my mind I saw my people marching. … I saw Ako, ribbons in her hair. Could we find her, and if we did, could we save her?

  We ran, stumbling over splintered trees and bushes, pushing through twisted vines and thorny branches. We saw the burnt and bombed hillsides, climbed over black skeletons of trees, and fell over charred bodies of dogs, pigs, water buffalo … and people. Bellies lay swollen, legs stiff, and eyes open, staring. I could not look at them. Father, did you know this was war?

  The sun rose, and the jungle became an oven. We ran with sweat running down our faces, stinging our eyes; we ran until the burning in our lungs forced us to rest. When our chests stopped heaving and our legs stopped shaking, we ran again, always north, always higher, until we neared the cliffs.

  By midday we reached the high, flat plateau—the savanna—and I wanted to turn around. Far ahead, helicopters circled, their engines roared, and machine guns popped. What if we were too late? Storm clouds were building high and dark over the distant ocean. Sweeps of rain blew toward us, like a smudge of gray skimming across the water. The wind pushed us back as dust blew in our eyes and smoke burned our throats. The clouds cooled the air and blocked the blistering sun, and rain poured down like a river. We opened our mouths and drank. But the wind never ceased, never relented, and soon it blew away what it had given. The clouds swept past and thinned, the sky lightened, and the rain stopped.

  We pushed through the thick grass of the savanna and over muddy ashes where the grass had burned. We ran. We heard screams and shouts. Then in the distance, they appeared: an endless stream of people. Soldiers marched, children stumbled, mothers carried babies on their backs, and fathers held little ones in their arms. A girl held her little brother by the hand. Natives walked next to Japanese, women and children next to soldiers. War made no distinctions.

  As we got closer, classmates appeared. Tomo! I saw my classmate, the quiet one whose fingers clicked the abacus beads faster than anyone. Next to him walked a white-haired grandfather, stooped and pale, holding Tomo by the hand as if he were a child. His grandfather carried a little girl, her black hair braided and tied with red ribbons. Ribbons. I had to find Ako.

  Helicopters swooped overhead like giant buzzing flies. No Imperial red sun rose on their metallic sides. Americans! The men inside shouted words I did not understand. Their megaphones urged in Japanese: Stop. Do not jump. We will not hurt you. Slips of white paper fluttered to the ground. We will not hurt you. Do not jump. People stepped through the swirling papers as if they were falling leaves.

  And then I saw Sensei, his tall thin figure walking forward. “No!” I screamed, but nothing came from my mouth. I saw him standing in front of our class and I heard again his words: I have my duty. Take care of yourself. Your family, your people.

  Then what I saw, I could not believe. A mother with two children darted away from the stream of people marching toward the cliffs. She pulled one child behind her, the other she held. Gunfire. She slumped over, shot. Another soldier rushed over to her. He lifted his sword, one slash, then another. All three lay beheaded. Others pushed past the bodies, showed no reaction. They walked onward to the cliff.

  “Joseph, what’s wrong with you? Why are you standing there? We must find them now!” Kento screamed.

  A volley of gunfire exploded between two groups of soldiers, Americans above in helicopters and Japanese not far from us. Startled, I shuddered, aware that Kento and I were in their crossfire.

  I began running, yelling like a madman, “Ako! Ako-chan!”

  We slipped between trees, screaming, calling. If we were seen, we would be shot. I didn’t care. We kept running toward the cliff.

  Ahead of us, families lined up in orderly rows. Mothers holding their babies stepped off the cliff edge, staring straight ahead. Children followed, one after another, leaped to their deaths. Last came fathers, running backwards, not knowing which step would be their last.

  I stared, unable to move, unable to utter a sound. I couldn’t look away. One after another, a child, a mother, a father, stepped off the cliff.

  Kento saw her first. She walked calmly, hand in hand with their mother, looking as fragile as a porcelain doll in a glass case.

  “Ako!” Kento screamed.

  Ako turned and looked around, as if startled from sleep.

  “Ako! Mother! Stop!” Kento screamed and ran toward them.

  Ako’s eyes grew round. She tugged hard on her mother’s hand and pointed. Kento pushed through the chaos of marching people.

  Three young women bolted from the cliff and ran toward a tangle of trees on the far slope. Helicopters swooped over them. Japanese soldiers fired, first at the women, then at the helicopters. People ran in all directions, terrified of both the soldiers and the whining blades that whipped dirt and mud. One woman screamed, ran toward the woods, fell, crawled between rocks and boulders, and fell again. A soldier followed her. As he bent over her sprawled body, my heart pleaded, No, leave her alone. The soldier helped her up and then watched as she continued toward the trees to hide, to disappear into safety.

  This was our chance. We too must disappear. “Kento, Ako, now!” I shouted and waved my arms. “Run to the rocks, here, over here!”

  Ako grabbed her mother’s arm and dodged between people, toward her brother. I ran to them, calling in our native language. “Come, Auntie! We are going home. Run this way. We are going home.”

  People pushed past. An old lady fell down. A soldier shot her in the head. The man next to her began to cry and knelt beside her. Someone pushed by and knocked me over. I scrambled back up, ran to catch up with the others, and grabbed my aunt’s arm. “Follow me, we’ll hide behind those rocks, we will be safe.” I heard an order shouted and then another shot. I turned around.

  Tomo stood at the cliff next to his grandfather and the little girl.

  The grandfather reached down, picked up the little girl, kissed her forehead, kissed the red ribbons that danced in the wind. He hugged her close, her head tucked beneath his chin, took Tomo’s hand, and stepped off the cliff.

  “No!” I screamed.

  Kento yanked at my arm. I held onto my aunt. Together we walked into the jungle, to hide, to safety. We huddled behind a pile of boulders while his mother rested, needing to breathe, gasping for air.

  Endless shots—a cacophony of screams, shouts, gunfire, the roaring of helicopters and, still, the wind’s unmerciful howling. I fell to my knees, covered my ears with my hands, and cried. The people flowed on and on like a river. Sa’dog tasi … river to the sea. My people … my people.

  HOPE

  Black butterfly,

  Sit on my ears, my lips,

  My fingertips.

  Whisper.

  “See that spider web, Joseph? See how it shimmers in the light?”

  I didn’t look up. I sat hunched over, arms around my legs.

  “Please look, just once. It’s the biggest web I’ve ever seen.”

  The web stretched across several branches of the breadfruit tree right outside the cave. “You’re right, Ako. It is big. But scoot back. Remember, I said never go past this line.”

  “Right in the middle is the spider, like a jewel, gold and green.”

  Our cave was crowded. Hot and smelly. We had
little food. Not enough water.

  “I’ve never been in a cave before. It’s creepy.” Ako wrinkled up her nose. “It sure does smell.”

  “Ako, stay back from the entrance.” She was stubborn and interested in everything. Even after all that had happened.

  I spoke sharply. “Stay back. Sit by your mother. Whisper. Don’t talk so loud.”

  “You’re talking louder than me.” She grinned. “Spiders live outside. I like to sit out here near Anna Maria and Taeyo. Anyway, it doesn’t smell out here.”

  “Stay back. That’s an order.”

  Ako shook her head, and her long braids whipped back and forth. I saw again the cliff, the grandfather … red ribbons. Nausea swept through me.

  “Spiders are lucky, Joseph. Imagine bathing in raindrops.”

  “And eating bugs? How lucky is that?”

  “Oh, Joseph, you’re so grumpy! Aren’t you glad we’re here? Look. Black butterflies! Two of them.” She pointed at the leaves outside. She looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Joseph, if butterflies can survive, so can we.” She was inching closer to the front.

  “Get back!”

  “When I see butterflies, I feel butterflies inside me. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to fly!”

  I had to smile. “You’re right, Ako. They are lovely.”

  We watched their wings fluttering, blue-black iridescence, and each wing was dotted with one yellow circle. The pair flew between the breadfruit leaves, tasting the tiny clusters of blossoms. Ako watched with such intensity, such focus.

  “Please move back, Ako.”

  “Come here, Joseph,” Kento called from inside the cave.

  He sat cross-legged in a place where he had scraped the dirt flat and patted it smooth. He had scratched several kanji in the dust. He handed me his stick. “Your turn.”

  “I’ve forgotten.”

  “Try.”

  I copied a few lines, then threw the stick down. Waiting was killing us as surely as the thirst and hunger.

  “Try again.” Kento made me draw the lines until I got each one exactly right and in the correct order.