Hunt for the Bamboo Rat

by Graham Salisbury

  Henry would think he’d lost his mind. Maybe he had.

  Thinking of Henry gave him courage.

  “I’ll do the talking,” he said, putting on the red sash.

  They marched toward the prison.

  As they approached, two armed guards stepped out to block them. But when they saw Zenji they bowed and backed off.

  Zenji was astounded.

  The guerrillas quickly overcame, bound, and gagged the guards, and forced them to their knees.

  One guerrilla pulled a knife.

  “No!” Zenji snapped. “It will enrage the Japanese to find dead guards. Hide them. Get the others. Go!”

  As two men dragged the guards into the entry shack, a wave of thirty ghostly guerrillas rose up out of the bushes nearby and silently scurried toward the gate.

  They followed Zenji to the prison armory, which they quickly secured. He left ten men to empty it. The weapons would go to the guerrillas.

  Zenji checked his watch.

  Thirty seconds had passed.

  “Come on, come on,” he whispered.

  Foomp!

  Every light in the prison went out.

  “Let’s go!”

  They were quick.

  First, they secured every guard in the prison, then ran from cell to cell, releasing Navarro and his guerrillas. The hardened criminals shouted at them, but they were left behind.

  In less than twenty minutes, five hundred men scattered into the night.

  Esteban Navarro clamped a hand on Zenji’s shoulder. “My friend, I won’t forget this. Good luck.”

  “How can I contact you?”

  “My wife.”

  Navarro ran into the dark.

  Zenji found his hidden clothes, changed, and ran back to the mansion, his footfalls soft.

  He hid the sash and the colonel’s uniform in the garage. He’d return the uniform, except for the sash, which he would destroy the first chance he got.

  He removed his shoes and eased open the kitchen door.

  The house was silent.

  He crept toward his room, stopping to peer in on the Taiwanese in their bunk room.

  Ting was missing.

  Zenji slipped into his closet bedroom, then staggered back.

  Ting crouched near his mattress with a machete. “Where you went, stupid American?”

  Slowly, Zenji set his shoes down. “None of your business.”

  “You tell. Where you went?”

  “To the bathroom.”

  Ting snorted. “T’ree-hour piss?”

  Zenji shrugged and started unbuttoning his shirt.

  “You no tell me, I tell Fujimoto. Or … maybe I jus’ kill you.”

  “I went for a walk. Couldn’t sleep.”

  “I see you go. You take something. Where it went, what you took?”

  Zenji flicked the accusation off with a wave of his hand. “Listen,” he said with a sigh. “I … I just met someone.”

  “Who?”

  “I have … a girlfriend … if you must know.”

  Ting seemed surprised. He grinned and kissed his fingers. “Filipina?”

  “Beat it,” Zenji said. “I’m tired.”

  Ting stayed where he was for another minute, then stood. “I go, but still, I tell.”

  The next day, Colonel Fujimoto headed off in his limousine. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  But where was Ting?

  Zenji checked the bunk room.

  Nothing but Ting’s unmade bed and dirty laundry.

  Zenji yawned, exhausted from worry and his brazen deed. How could he have even thought of such an insane thing, much less done it? Five hundred guerrillas! When Fujimoto found out he would explode!

  Get to the office. Quick!

  He hurried into his room and slammed into Ting. “What are you doing in here?”

  Ting grinned, and pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. He opened it.

  Zenji’s extra Han-stamped prison permission form!

  Zenji snatched it.

  “Give um!” Ting tried to get the form back. Zenji ripped it to shreds and stuffed the pieces into his pocket.

  Ting ran to get his machete.

  Zenji raced out the door to the bus stop.

  * * *

  When Zenji arrived at the office he took a moment to compose himself before walking in.

  Just another morning.

  No one looked up, as usual.

  Colonel Fujimoto was at his desk. Clearly, he had not yet heard.

  Zenji felt pings of terror in his gut.

  He made tea as always, carried it in to the colonel, set it on his desk.

  Fujimoto did not look up.

  Zenji headed to his desk and picked through a new stack of documents to be translated. He forced himself to keep his head down, hard at work.

  An officer burst in, ran through to Colonel Fujimoto’s office.

  Everyone looked up.

  “Colonel!” the man shouted.

  Colonel Fujimoto stood.

  The staff, Zenji included, looked from one to another and got up to crowd around the door to the colonel’s office. Zenji acted mystified, alarmed.

  As the story tumbled out, the colonel’s face reddened. He slammed his fist on the desk. “How did this happen?”

  The man, probably the prison director, cowered. “No one knows.”

  “You left the armory unguarded? Filipinos? Out! Out!”

  The man bowed and backed away.

  “Out!” the colonel shouted again. “Out! Out!”

  The staff scattered when Colonel Fujimoto raged into the open area. Zenji held his breath, afraid even to blink.

  “Call my car!” the colonel snapped. “Now!”

  Zenji grabbed the phone and dialed.

  Colonel Fujimoto paced, shouting at his staff, spitting out details of the prison break.

  Zenji pretended to be as shocked as everyone else.

  His staff listened, frozen, terrified.

  When the colonel stormed out, Zenji sagged against a wall, dizzy.

  The only facts the colonel ever uncovered were that a prisoner named Navarro had shut the prison’s electrical system down, that six men disguised as Japanese soldiers had overtaken the gate guards, that close to fifty men had slipped in to release the guerrillas, and the most unbearable disgrace: the looting of his armory.

  Colonel Fujimoto demanded that the perpetrators be captured and executed.

  Zenji had never been so scared in his life.

  Because there was one glaring clue that the colonel was overlooking: the leader of the disguised Japanese soldiers was Japanese and had worn a red sash. If the colonel had thought it through he would have wondered where that man might have laid hands on one.

  But so far it didn’t look like the colonel had thought of such things. Now it was all about cleaning up the mess.

  Ting worried Zenji even more than the colonel. If he ever told Fujimoto what he knew about that night, Zenji would have to run.

  But Ting kept quiet.

  Why?

  One evening, Zenji found himself in the kitchen with Ting and Cheng, the cook. Ting was slicing onions for the colonel’s dinner.

  Zenji edged up. “Ting,” he said, low.

  As usual, Ting refused to look directly at Zenji.

  Zenji glanced at Cheng. He needed privacy.

  But Cheng spoke no English.

  Zenji went on. He had to know.

  “I, uh … I want to thank you … for not telling, you know, about that night.”

  Ting looked up. He glared, but his face softened. He shook his head and went back to slicing.

  Zenji waited, not knowing how to say what he needed to say. The last thing he wanted to do was give Ting more information than he had to. But he sensed that Ting knew that he had something to do with the escape, and he had to know if Ting would keep quiet. If Ting’s silence was in question, Zenji would disappear.

  Was that even possible?

  M
anila was full of alleys and warrens and places to hide. But he would need help, and no Filipino civilians were going to help a Japanese. And the guerillas were in the hills.

  Ting flicked his chin at Zenji. “I no tell because you like me, like Cheng, like driver.”

  Cheng looked up, hearing his name.

  Zenji cocked his head. “What you mean?”

  “Slave,” Ting said.

  Relief made Zenji near giddy. He smiled. “Right.”

  Ting nodded.

  From that moment on Zenji and Colonel Fujimoto’s servants became comrades. Not friends, but it was enough.

  A few weeks later, Mrs. Navarro showed up at the office. What audacity! What courage! Was she crazy?

  Zenji had thought he’d never see her again.

  Colonel Fujimoto spotted her, put his hands on his desk, and slowly stood. He kept his eyes on her as he strutted into the open area.

  “You,” the colonel said. “Your husband is the one who turned off the power and helped dangerous men escape. Where is he?”

  He still doesn’t know he’d had a major resistance leader in the palm of his hand.

  The colonel was nearly removed from his position over the loss of five hundred prisoners of war. If it had been discovered that he’d also lost Nicodemo, he would have been dishonorably dismissed and shamed to his grave.

  Zenji translated the colonel’s question.

  “I am here to learn that myself,” Mrs. Navarro said in English. “I am worried about him. He’s just a poor electrician, imprisoned by mistake. You must find him.”

  Brilliant, Zenji thought as he translated for the colonel. This makes her seem completely innocent. One who helped orchestrate an escape would never return.

  The colonel’s eyes narrowed as he listened. Zenji guessed that he’d love to throw Mrs. Navarro in prison to satisfy his loss of face.

  But he was much too honorable for that.

  He turned to Zenji. “Escort this woman from this building and tell her never to return. If she does I will have her arrested.”

  Zenji bowed and took Mrs. Navarro by her elbow. “Come.”

  “Did you see the look on his face?” she whispered as they headed down the hall.

  Zenji looked straight ahead.

  “Esteban says that he will be forever grateful for your courage. And he wants to know if you have information.”

  Zenji smiled. “I will.”

  After that, Zenji was able to pass what he knew on to the guerrillas through Mrs. Navarro, hoping it would end up in American hands. He never wrote anything down, but memorized communiqués about troop movements around Manila, shipping information, reports on a Japanese force on the southern tip of Mindanao.

  The guerrillas had to keep moving. The Japanese Signal Corps was able to monitor their radio transmissions and trace their locations.

  Since all information having to do with the escaped men went through Colonel Fujimoto’s office, Zenji was able to keep Navarro and his men aware of every move the Japanese made in their efforts to locate and trap them.

  But the Japanese would never be successful. There were over two hundred thousand guerrillas throughout the Philippines. Nicodemo’s unit was only one small part of a vast organization.

  Colonel Fujimoto never accused Zenji of anything, but Zenji believed a shadow of suspicion sat in the back of the colonel’s mind. He’d become colder, formal, but that could have been due to his disgrace.

  Zenji knew that soon none of it would matter, anyway.

  The Americans were coming back.

  He could hear it in office whispers, smell it in the air, feel it in his bones.

  By late September 1944, American air raids into Japanese-held territory had grown bolder. Colonel Fujimoto and the Fourteenth Army headquarters were forced to move to more bomb-secure Fort McKinley, south of the city.

  The colonel and his staff could not believe that Japan was unable to stop the Americans. And worse, Japan had lost its bases in the Mariana Islands. From there, American bombers could reach Japan!

  How was this possible? Japan was a far superior force.

  Colonel Fujimoto hardly paid attention to Zenji.

  Zenji had to be alert to any opportunity to escape.

  “Ting,” he whispered one evening, “you know it’s coming to an end soon?”

  “Not for us.” Ting lifted his chin toward the cook.

  “The Americans are coming,” Zenji said. “Fujimoto will have to leave Manila. You can escape.”

  Ting stared at the floor. “Nowhere to go.”

  “You can find help among the people of—”

  “They no like.”

  Probably true. Anyone who worked for the Japanese would be scorned.

  “Still,” Zenji said. “Be prepared.”

  Ting nodded. “You watch, too, American.”

  “Yeah. Dangerous. I look like the enemy, ah?”

  Ting ran a finger across his throat.

  “Seen that before,” Zenji said.

  But Ting was right. If he were to escape and remain in Manila, the invading Americans could mistake him for the enemy and shoot him on the spot. If he were to stay with Colonel Fujimoto, he could be executed as his usefulness to Japan diminished.

  But to be free.

  The word took him by surprise.

  For a moment he even allowed himself to think of returning home. A swelling rose in his throat, almost bringing him to tears. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel how much he missed his family—Ma, Akio, Henry.

  He had not tortured himself with this thought.

  No, he told himself. This is not the time to get your hopes up. You are surrounded by desperate men who would kill you in a second—Japanese, Filipino, and even your own guys.

  * * *

  “Watanabe!” Colonel Fujimoto called one day from his office. “Get this place packed up. We’re leaving Manila. Now! Now!”

  “Yes, sir! Where do I start?”

  “I don’t care. Just do it.”

  He’s coming unglued, Zenji thought, and he knew why. General Yamashita, the mastermind behind the fall of Singapore, had replaced the ineffective General Kuroda, and had taken command in the Pacific. Not everyone supported Yamashita’s decision to evacuate Manila. Many wanted to stay and fight to the death.

  Yamashita’s plan was to move his command to Baguio, a summer city one hundred thirty miles north of Manila, five thousand feet above sea level in the mountains of Luzon.

  “Ting, you gotta run,” Zenji pleaded, back at the mansion. “Fujimoto no need you now. Worse if you stay.”

  Ting shook his head. “We run, Filipino kill.”

  Maybe Ma was right about those machetes.

  Zenji was still useful to the colonel, so was not dismissed to the same fate as the Taiwanese, who were assigned to the Fourteenth Army Labor Battalion to spend their days with picks, shovels, and machetes, clearing the way for the retreat to Baguio.

  I warned you, Zenji thought as the three men were herded toward a troop transport.

  Ting turned to Zenji. “Good luck, American slave.”

  “And you, weasel.”

  “What is weasel?”

  “A smart hunter.”

  Ting nodded once.

  They left with what little they owned, which was almost nothing. As the truck lumbered away, Zenji called, “You no make um back home safe, I whip!”

  Ting grinned.

  Zenji knew he was being watched.

  He did his best to blend in, especially since the officers who worked with Colonel Fujimoto looked upon him with increasing hatred. They’d have had the American traitor shot long ago.

  Escape. Soon.

  But not in Manila.

  Now Zenji climbed into the back of a commandeered covered fruit truck that was Colonel Fujimoto’s moving van. It was packed with files and belongings. Zenji could barely squeeze in.

  The driver tossed him a clean medical mask. “You may need it.”

  “Thanks.”
>
  He secured it over his mouth and nose. The drive would be dusty. He’d be covered in grime by the time they got to Baguio.

  The Japanese units that remained behind would be brutal. Leaving with Fujimoto was the best choice.

  It’s crazy, Zenji thought as they drove away. Bamboo Rat still lives among the enemy. What about Spider?

  Is he still in Australia?

  And had Benny Suzuki found his way to his family?

  One day at a time.

  For now—be indispensable. Then, safely in Baguio—escape. Hide in the jungle until the Japanese are defeated, emerge, and reunite with his countrymen.

  This was all he thought about on the long, grinding journey.

  Zenji was surprised to find Baguio completely untouched by war, even now, in late 1944. It was a city of low buildings, beautiful trees, and wide, clean streets, with little traffic. And it was cool, a relief from Manila.

  Peaceful like Honolulu. Until General Yamashita’s convoy rolled into town. The general set up headquarters in the Baguio hospital. Colonel Fujimoto, Zenji, and staff occupied a nearby church.

  “Can you cook?” Colonel Fujimoto asked Zenji.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He’d never cooked anything but meat and fish on a small hibachi, and only when Ma had told him to.

  “Good. You are now a cook. In fact, you are now my entire house staff.” The colonel eked out a rare smile.

  “Yes, sir!” Zenji gave him a salute.

  The colonel still stood tall. He was an enemy, but Zenji knew he was a decent man. He cared about people. Probably why he had a desk job.

  Cooking turned out to be a good assignment. The colonel received foods that most did not, like rice and even sweets. Provisions were very low, with little hope of a supply line to replenish what was consumed. Japanese troops had to forage in the jungle.

  Good, Zenji thought. If they can forage, so can I.

  He was running out of time.

  Jungle survival. He started hiding small amounts of uncooked rice and other things that would not spoil. But food became scarce.

  “This is all?” the colonel snapped one evening.

  Zenji had served him a child’s portion of rice.

  “Rations are few, Colonel.”

  “This rice is not thoroughly cooked. You are incompetent!” Colonel Fujimoto pushed his plate aside.