Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

by Kristina McMorris

  Emotions rising, Maddie shut the case and gestured toward the crate on the floor. “Can you believe Mr. Garrett gave me his record collection? I told him it was too generous, but he insisted there’s only one he wanted to keep. Also, his gramophone doesn’t work anymore, so ...”

  Emma showed no sign of her reliable, infectious grin. She absently fingered the suitcase buckle. Her gaze low, she whispered, “I’m scared, Onsan.”

  There was no reason to ask why. Maddie understood all too well the fear of the unknown, of losing ones you loved. The fear that a single day, an unwanted change, could permanently alter your life.

  “Ah, cheer up, now.” She directed this to Emma as much as herself. “Just think of all your favorite things in California that you’ve missed. Like feeding the ducks at Hollenbeck Park. Or eating rhubarb pie at Clifton’s. The holiday parades downtown?”

  “Yeah, but,” Emma began, and hesitated.

  “But what, sweetie? You can say it.”

  Emma lifted her glossy eyes. “What if nobody wants us back?”

  Maddie wanted to offer an assurance. The lie, however, refused to form. Concern over treatment that awaited—for Suzie, in particular, who might not fit into either world—constantly hovered in her mind.

  “Why can’t we just wait until next fall?” Emma pleaded. “That’s when I’ll be going into junior high anyway. Why can’t we do that instead?”

  Nobu was determined they depart before outwearing their welcome, and Maddie did see his point. Mr. Garrett had initially signed on to house three able-bodied women for helping out with chores; not five guests to take over his house, including a tot who was hardly reducing his workload.

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” Maddie told her. “You’ll see. Once we’re settled, it’ll all be grand.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because, pretty—” She was about to say “girl,” but stopped herself. Emma had grown up right before her eyes. At eleven years old, she’d gained maturity and insight beyond her years. For that reason alone, she deserved an honest answer.

  “Because we’re survivors,” Maddie said firmly. “That’s how I know.”

  After taking this in, Emma nodded.

  “Come here, honey.” Maddie welcomed her into a hug. She stroked Emma’s long ebony hair to the sweet, innocent tones of Suzie’s humming, which floated down the hall and into the room.

  “I miss Lane,” Emma said softly, her cheek on Maddie’s chest.

  Maddie closed her eyes and confessed, “So do I, Em. So do I... .”

  65

  The mission was running according to plan—so far. With ten soldiers in each banca, Lane’s unit had crossed the Sulu Sea undetected, despite danger that swayed like kelp in the dark waters. Filipino guerrillas had delivered on their promise; in preparation for the stealth landing, they’d cleared Magtulay’s far north shore of Japanese night patrollers.

  More than once the question had scratched at Lane’s mind: What in God’s name am I doing here?

  Too late to turn back. What’s more, TJ was here. On this very island. By dawn, they could be sailing toward freedom together.

  A hazy moon and the captain’s map served as their only guides. The armed GIs snaked their way around a mangrove, then cut through an island passage to reach the barn designated their coordinating point. Along the way, they’d captured a valuable asset, a Japanese corporal with thorough knowledge of the POW camp’s interior.

  Using a stick, the guy sketched the officers’ quarters into the dirt. Lane crouched beside him, propping a flashlight. A circle of Army Rangers looked on intently. Over the past few days, a small recon team had provided a sufficient amount of intel, but was unable to determine details that the Japanese soldier was suddenly spilling freely.

  “So what’d you say to him?” the husky captain asked Lane, sounding puzzled and rightly so. Until a moment ago, the enemy corporal had firmly declared he would die before doing anything to help America.

  “I told him if he didn’t tell us everything, you were gonna send a message to his parents through the Red Cross. That it’d say the second we landed on the beach, he surrendered without a fight.”

  A smile eased onto Captain McDonough’s face. “Glad someone round here understands how these monkeys think.”

  The comment typically would have caused Lane an internal knee jerk. But the fact was this: He did understand them; like it or not, they were part of him. The line between him and the enemy had simultaneously blurred and solidified. Somehow, while perhaps it shouldn’t have, this thought provided a strange sense of peace.

  “Okay, listen up,” the captain announced after gathering enough details. He went through the plan one last time, utilizing the diagram on the ground. Speed and surprise were essential. Should something go awry, they were all to rush the camp, weapons firing. Two Rangers were tasked with seeking out the politician’s son, referred to as the “Goddamned VIP.” All other Allied prisoners were to be rescued as the situation allowed.

  A runner arrived at the tail end of the recap and reported all was going smoothly. Two other Army units, making their total U.S. force just over a hundred strong, were now hunkered down by rice paddies a mile away. Thanks to their band of Filipino accomplices, a supply of makeshift stretchers, wheelbarrows, and carabao-towed carts was ready to transport debilitated POWs to the beach. There, rescue subs would meet the whole lot of them—if they pulled this off.

  The minutes dragged as though soaked in tar. Seated against a barn wall, Lane removed his helmet and retrieved the photo from inside. A picture of his family that Maddie had sent. His wife’s arm wrapped sweet Emma around the shoulders, and his mother beamed with an expression he recognized solely from his boyhood. Suzie, growing like a weed, clung to Lane’s father, who held the girl snugly in his arms.

  For the millionth time, Lane stroked Maddie’s face, little Suzie’s plump cheeks. He imagined the melody of the laughter that had filled the room. Though he ached to join them, even now he didn’t regret the risk he was taking. Instead, the thought of them reminded him why he was here.

  Finally McDonough gave the word. Time to move out.

  The men adjusted their battle gear. They secured white armbands, identification to prevent friendly fire, and they slipped out a side door. A breeze whispered warnings through the leaves of towering palm trees. Waves crashed on the distant shore.

  Then came a thud.

  Lane swung his rifle toward the sound. His pulse doubled in speed.

  “Coconut,” assured the Ranger beside him in an undertone.

  Lane forced a swallow and continued on, his weapon slick in his moistening palms. In a single-file column, the soldiers trekked through the jungle over branches and rocks, fallen trees. Unseen creatures rustled like agitated ghosts.

  At last the captain raised his hand, the signal to halt, then to take their positions. The unit quietly scattered as McDonough summoned Lane to the front. In a natural ditch of dried mud and giant leaves, the commander passed Lane binoculars after taking a peek himself. Lane raised them to his eyes. A dirt road, just over eighty yards ahead, divided two stilted guard towers flanking the prison entrance. To the raid’s advantage, there were no searchlights to illuminate the perimeter that was now virtually surrounded.

  “The paguda thing,” McDonough said to him, “is that what I’m seeing over there? Fifty yards northeast of the flagpole?”

  Lane peered through the main gate webbed with barbed wire. The flag’s circle—the Emperor’s red sun—fluttered, then drooped with the sigh of a drained balloon. Or perhaps a sleeping beast. From there, Lane located the decorative stone pagoda, which the Japanese corporal had described. The narrow, temple-like sculpture would serve as their reference point.

  “Yeah, Captain,” he confirmed. “That’s the one.”

  “Well, looks like he was telling the truth, after all.”

  Lucky for the corporal. The coarse Filipino farmer who was guarding him didn’t seem the lenie
nt type.

  McDonough accepted the binoculars to further study the landscape. Once more, the minutes dragged past. Morning strained blackness from the air, until less than an hour awaited before the raid.

  At 0600 the majority of the prison guards were expected to begin their daily exercise. With no weapons and little clothing on, they would be slower to react. Allied casualties would be minimized during the coordinated assault.

  McDonough now gave a sign. A couple of Army snipers crawled forward to take their positions in the bushes. At the prescribed hour, they were to neutralize the sentries at the gate. This would pave a path for the rescue units to swoop in with their rifles and grenades, their Tommy guns, BARs, and bazookas.

  Lane was concentrating on keeping his breaths even and silent when a voice echoed through the dawn. A man’s voice. Had to be Japanese. He was too far away though, too mumbled to understand.

  “Damn it,” the captain whispered, binoculars raised. “He’s coming closer.” The enemy guard spoke again, and McDonough turned to Lane. “What’s he saying?”

  Lane grabbed the binoculars. He’d have better luck if he could see the guy’s mouth move. The Japanese soldier was yelling something back at the sentries in the towers. He was holding his rifle as though preparing to shoot—but at what?

  Studying the guy’s lips, Lane tried to make out the words. Yumi ... ma ... so ... His mind scrambled to understand. Then it came to him. Yubimasubi!

  “Possum,” he alerted the commander. “He’s only hunting possum.”

  The captain launched a hushed order of “Hold your fire, hold your fire,” but before it could spread, the Japanese man discharged his weapon. Not two seconds later, a return shot leveled him to the ground. The invisible wire had been tripped, and just like that, their calculated plan exploded. Wounded, the guard screamed to his comrades. An exchange of ammo snapped and boomed.

  “Let’s go! Let’s go!” McDonough hollered. Yet as Lane started to rise with the others, the captain commanded, “You stay put.”

  Lane started to argue, but McDonough was gone.

  The island shook and grumbled. Lane would be smart to remain in his spot of relative safety. He was far from an elite Army Ranger trained for special missions. He’d been assigned merely to help guide them to their stationing point, which he’d done. Now he was supposed to sit tight and wait.

  But how could he? The kid he’d grown up with—the one who, in fact, had once saved his life—was trapped inside that corral of barbed wire.

  Ah, stuff the order!

  He stormed forward and into the mouth of the roaring beast. A machine gun peppered the main watchtowers, sending a guard to his death below. The other sentry hung limply over a windowsill.

  Lane took cover behind a supply hut on the prison grounds. He peeked around the corner. A Japanese soldier was charging straight in his direction. Lane pulled the trigger and cut him down in two shots.

  A lineup of long thatched buildings created a backdrop to the battle. The prisoners’ quarters. Breath held, heart pounding, he took off toward the closest one. Bullets zipped past his face, but he didn’t stop, didn’t turn back.

  Inside the barrack, he found haggard POWs huddled in corners, crouched beneath sleeping bays. The smell of filth and degradation caused Lane a jolt.

  “It’s all right,” he yelled to them. He knelt down to avoid being spotted or shot through the open-air windows. “We’re Americans. We’re here to bring you home!”

  Half the men looked dazed, some plain terrified. For others, the realization that this was real—not the same dream they’d had every night since being captured—played across their faces.

  “What do you need us to do?” asked one nearby.

  “Grab anything you can use as weapons.” It wasn’t an official order, just the first thought Lane had. “The guys well enough to fight back ought to be in front. Are any of you strong enough to take out guards if they come inside?”

  “Oh, we’re strong enough,” another prisoner replied. He had revenge in his voice and smile.

  Lane nodded. “Till it’s over, the rest of you fellas stay low and keep safe.”

  More and more of the dazed prisoners appeared to be reentering the present. POWs shuffled around the room, gaining momentum. Small hidden weapons—sharpened rocks, rusted blades—emerged from hiding. A sailor snapped a whittled cane over his knee, creating two jagged points.

  Lane searched their faces, their hollowed eyes, hunting for the one he’d truly come for. Would he recognize his old friend even in this ghastly state?

  “Listen,” he called out, “does anyone here know a guy named—” A blast outside blew through the rest. He tried again, louder. “I’m looking for an airman. His name’s Kern. TJ Kern. From California.”

  “You mean the baseball pitcher?” someone asked.

  A surge bolted through Lane’s veins, so strong he stammered his answer. “Yes, that’s—that’s him. Is he here?”

  “Nah.” A cough followed, and then: “He’s gone.”

  The word gone halted Lane in place. A single syllable, and yet it stilled all movement in his body. With effort, he asked, “Gone where?”

  The prisoner who first greeted Lane spoke up. “About a mile north.” Machine guns rat-tat-tatted outside. Another explosion boomed. The guy’s speech quickened. “We were almost done with the air raid shelters when Looney wanted an airstrip instead. I was helping out till I came down with a nasty fever.”

  “So he’s alive?” Lane broke in.

  The man paused before nodding. “Last I saw.”

  Lane’s emotions raced and skidded, spun and reversed, trying to keep up. “Tell me where.”

  The prisoner filled him in. Then Lane jetted from the barrack and again took cover behind the hut. Scads of Japanese soldiers littered the ground. Still, a continuous stream of guards rolled in, each rippling from shots and slamming to the ground.

  Lane’s gaze zipped from left to right and back. He looked for the captain, for reinforcement. But there was no one free to help. At least a dozen POWs, including TJ, were bivouacked outside the camp, in equal need of rescue. More so, in fact. Sounds of the raid were surely reaching them. Made nervous enough, their supervisors might eliminate all dozen liabilities with a single spray of bullets.

  Time, above all, had become Lane’s greatest enemy.

  He had no choice. He’d go it alone.

  Ducking down, he ran out the gate. The dirt road was the fastest route there, that’s what the POW had said. Hiking through the jungle would keep Lane out of sight but could take twice as long.

  In the heat of his dilemma, he spotted the possum hunter, dead and sprawled on the ground. An idea bloomed.

  Lane dragged the corpse into the jungle lining the road. He replaced his uniform with the Japanese guard’s, though he retained his own boots—the guard’s were too small—and balled his white armband into his trouser pocket. Aware the strategy could backfire, he resumed his sprint.

  Birds awakened with the sun. They chirped to the beat of Lane’s choppy exhales. His right boot rubbed open a blister on his heel. The Japanese rifle’s weight and shape felt foreign bouncing in his hands. He’d considered keeping his own, but the M1, held at waist level, would have given him away at a glance.

  At the sight of a shovel in a shallow ditch, he reined in his pace and pulled his field cap low. A wide clearing in the trees appeared fifty yards ahead. A runway in the making. The guys had to be hiding close by.

  Unless Lane was too late.

  An enemy soldier stepped out from the jungle and yelled in Japanese, “Private Asano! What did you discover?” Tucked below his patch of a mustache, the man’s scowl looked as tight as the grip attached to his rifle. Behind him, a younger guard kept watch over a cluster of POWs seated on the ground, shoulders hunched, barefooted and tattered.

  Lane jerked his gaze back to the frowning guard; the slightest reaction to spotting TJ could blow his cover. “It’s a rebellion,” he announced in J
apanese. “By the prisoners.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Obviously he was expecting a different messenger.

  Lane pressed onward. “Commander Yamazaki has ordered me to supervise the inmates.” Thankfully, the captured corporal had shared the leader’s name. “Both of you have been ordered back to the camp to help subdue the uprising.”

  The mustached guard moved closer. He wrinkled his nose as though preparing to sniff out a stranger’s identity. “I’ve never seen you before. What’s your unit?”

  Lane squeezed his elbow to the side of his borrowed tunic. Bloodstains were understandable, but the bullet hole would raise questions. “I’m with a reinforcement troop from Luzon. We arrived late last night.”

  Permeating with scrutiny, the man lowered his eyes—toward Lane’s boots.

  Shit. Lane should have forced his feet into the other pair. “The commander’s waiting,” he reminded the guard sternly. At the lack of response, he shouted, “Go now!”

  The second guard, a lean, clean-cut guy, convinced the first to obey. Together, they jogged off down the road. Once they disappeared around the bend, Lane turned to the POWs, who stared up at him watchfully. His mind switched back to English before he spoke.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he told them. “I’m with the U.S. Army.”

  That voice. TJ knew that voice. He’d recognize it anywhere, but still he struggled to believe his ears. He rose to his worn feet, and from the rear of the group, he edged his steps forward. “Tomo ... is that you?”

  Their eyes connected, confirming it was Lane. Yet how could it be?

  TJ wondered if he was hallucinating, or maybe already dead, until Lane marched over and embraced him.

  “Thank God,” Lane breathed. “You’re alive... .”

  TJ managed to raise his arms. The fabric beneath his hands was real. His old friend before him was real.