Dawn of a Thousand Nights

by Tricia N. Goyer

  Mr. Atkins’s voice called again, louder. What could be the matter now? Perhaps he’d heard rumor of another invasion.

  Libby leaned out the window, peering to the sidewalk, where the thin, older man stood. “Yes, Mr. Atkins?”

  “Turn your radio on! The president is discussing the situation in the Philippines. He said—”

  Libby didn’t wait to hear the rest. She hurried to the radio on her bedroom dresser and clicked it on. President Roosevelt’s voice filled the room.

  “Immediately after this war started, Japanese forces moved down on either side of the Philippines to numerous points south of them—thereby completely encircling the Philippines from north and south and east and west.

  “It is that complete encirclement, with control of the air by Japanese land-based aircraft, that has prevented us from sending substantial reinforcements of men and material to the gallant defenders of the Philippines. For forty years it has always been our strategy—a strategy born of necessity—that in the event of a full-scale attack on the islands by Japan, we should fight a delaying action, attempting to retire slowly into Bataan Peninsula and Corregidor.”

  The president went on to speak about MacArthur’s army of Filipinos and Americans, and their brave fight. Then Libby’s ears perked again as he mentioned Pearl Harbor. She glanced to the harbor out her side window. After two months, Pearl was still a mess. Cranes and other machinery filled the shore, attempting to resurrect some of the damaged ships. Others would never be moved—a watery graveyard for those still entombed inside.

  Libby hung on the president’s every word.

  “It has been said that Japanese gains in the Philippines were made possible only by the success of their surprise attack on Pearl Harbor. I tell you that this is not so,” the voice through the radio continued. “Even if the attack had not been made, your map will show that it would have been a hopeless operation for us to send the fleet to the Philippines through thousands of miles of ocean, while all those island bases were under the sole control of the Japanese.”

  He continued on, speaking of the official losses at Pearl Harbor, of the weakening of Germany, Italy, and Japan, and the strengthening of the Allies through production of arms, ships, and planes. He also spoke of the work and sacrifice that would be required of their nation in the months to come.

  Still Libby waited to hear the promise. For him to tell the country that although reinforcements to the Philippines would be a challenge, they’d do all they could to assist those fighting on Bataan and Corregidor. But the words never came.

  Instead, he ended with these words: “Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered, yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the sacrifice, the more glorious the triumph.”

  Libby couldn’t hold back the tears as his voice faded.

  Sacrifice? Lord, I can’t do it. I’m not willing to let go.

  The tune of “God Bless America” filled the room. Libby reached over and unplugged the radio. Then she curled on her bed, unable to stop the shaking that had overcome her.

  “Don’t abandon them, Mr. President, please.” She wiped her moist cheeks with the back of her hand.

  Please, Lord. Don’t let them sacrifice Dan.

  Natsuo strode through the internment camp, noting that the haggardness of the women seemed to increase with each passing day. There was a distinct bite to the morning air, and he cinched the belt of his jacket tighter around his waist.

  The English-speaking citizens captured on Hong Kong now resided in new billets, yet Natsuo wouldn’t board a dog in such a place, much less children.

  Outside the compound, the beauty of Hong Kong—Fragrant Harbor—took Natsuo’s breath away. Ferries crisscrossed the clear, blue water. Chinese junks with frail-looking batwing sails also filled the space between the white, sandy beach and the small islands in the harbor. But beyond these things, it was the shattered buildings, the mounds of rubble, the equally broken people that drew Natsuo’s eyes.

  As he walked, he noted no cooking facilities, no furniture, no crockery, no cutlery. The toilet facilities were far from adequate, and there was no water except for what young Chinese boys brought in every day—barely enough to keep the prisoners alive. The list of insufficiencies continued to click through his head.

  His feet stirred dust from the barren compound as he walked, and he inwardly questioned why he must do this—why he must serve here while battles raged on distant shores. Battles he could fight for his emperor.

  His duties as a translator were called upon often. To translate for the camp commander, and to provide a line of communication between the captives and their captors. His most difficult duty, though, was keeping silent.

  Even worse than what the English women didn’t have was what others desired to take from them. Just this morning the male internees had complained about sharing rations.

  “We’d have more food and water if it weren’t for those bloody women and kids,” one British soldier had complained. “If they’d left for Australia as they’d been ordered to, we’d not be in such a bind.”

  Then there was the drunkenness amongst guards, and their sexual hunger that longed to be satisfied. They prowled like predators, looking through windows of the women’s billets. Or worse, taking for themselves what they wanted.

  As he neared the center of the compound, a line of young women shuffled past, some with small children on their hips. They collected their meager bowls of soup from the kitchen.

  “You! How dare you look me in the eye!” a guard shouted in Japanese, stepping in the path of a young woman. Her proper English dress was smudged and dirty, and although it appeared she had tried to fix her long hair, it straggled around her shoulders. She couldn’t understand his words, yet Natsuo saw a tremble travel through her body. Her child struggled and cried in her mother’s arms.

  The guard laughed, then kicked his booted foot against the woman’s leg, tripping her. She fell forward, and in an attempt to protect both her meal and her child, her face hit the ground with a thud. Blood spurted from her nose and lip. The child screamed.

  An older boy rushed forward and lifted the small girl from the ground. “It’s okay, Penelope. Shhhh, don’t cry.”

  “What are you looking at?” The laughing guard strode up to Natsuo and stared down at him nose to nose. “Do you wish to help her up? To comfort her with English words?”

  “Never,” Natsuo answered nonchalantly. “Just watching the show. Now if you’ll step aside, please, I have been called to the commander’s office.”

  The guard did so, but not without casting a challenging glare.

  Natsuo knew he’d have to try harder to hide his disapproval. Try harder not to let his mind find comfort at the sound of English voices spoken around him.

  He glanced at the woman once more as he continued on. The boy had calmed the toddler, but another child with blonde curls, who couldn’t have been older than three, stood next to the woman wailing, clutching an empty bowl to her chest, realizing there would be no dinner tonight.

  Would those he loved soon be living like this? Just two days ago Natsuo had heard a troubling report. An imperial radio broadcast stated that all citizens of Japanese descent living on the west coast of California were being placed into internment camps—that meant his sister and her family.

  Somehow, he’d find a way to hurt the Americans who’d dare do his sister harm.

  “Here they come!” The roar of planes drowned out Dan’s voice. Three Jap bombers flew overhead in a triangular configuration. When they turned Dan’s direction and started to glide, he knew what was coming.

  He sprinted for shelter in the banyan trees and dove under the large, solid tree roots. As the whistle of bombs came, the four to five inches of protection the roots gave him seemed worthless.

  After the whistle came the tremble of the ground. One after another—a continuous quake. Finally, minutes later, the explosions ceased and the sounds of the planes faded. Feeling a slight headache,
but otherwise intact, Dan climbed from the hole, dusted himself off, and turned back to the work at hand. Bombings had become a way of life—a disruption to their newfound work of sabotage.

  “Do you think our weapons will convince the Japs?” Dan returned to the stripped logs painted black.

  “I think from the sky they would look like cannon barrels. At least they’ll make nice targets for the circling bombers and keep them away from our planes,” said José Martinez, a soldier of Mexican descent from Arizona, who was applying a final layer of paint that they’d scrounged from a nearby village.

  It had been Gabe’s idea to take logs from the abandoned timber mill and create mock cannons, just as it had been his plan to make antipersonnel mines using bamboo shells, dynamite, and nails. He’d even fashioned detonating devices that would activate when stepped upon.

  “We did find some dynamite, didn’t we?” Dan scanned the treetops, looking for the perfect spot to set up their artillery. “When the Jap bombers approach we’ll set off a few sticks. That’ll send up a loud bang and a cloud of dust and smoke. Dumb Japs, they’ll fall for our ground artillery, for sure.”

  Now all they needed was to elevate the logs on hand-fashioned sawhorses and place them under the banyan trees with their dark ends sticking out.

  “Hey, have you seen Gabe?” Dan wiped the sweat from his brow. “I haven’t seen him since the last bombing.”

  “Oh, he’s most likely listening to the radio broadcasts from Tokyo. I told him not to. It’s anti-American propaganda, to be sure.” José chuckled. “But hey. When the Japs announce to their country the number of artillery pieces blown up on Bataan, we can laugh to ourselves, can’t we?”

  Dan felt a sinking feeling. “Nah, I don’t hear the radio. I’ll be right back.”

  It took twenty minutes of searching before he finally stumbled across Gabe, leaning against a fallen tree sheared off from the latest bombing. Blood dripped from his forehead. Dan hurried toward him, but as he grew closer he realized it was only a small gash.

  “Hey, I’ve been calling. Are you okay?”

  “Just leave me alone.” Gabe evaded his eyes and hunkered down with his arms wrapped over his head.

  “What do you mean? We have work to do. The Japs’ll be back soon, and we’ve gotta make a new plan. Should we try to rebuild that plane that crash-landed yesterday or just leave it?”

  “Did you hear me?” Gabe swatted a hand in Dan’s direction. “Figure it out yourself. I’m tired of fighting this thing. Tired of waiting. It’s hopeless. There’s a couple dozen guys that can help you. Just tell my sons … if you make it, tell them that being their dad was the greatest accomplishment of my life.”

  Dan squatted beside his friend. “Snap out of it, Gabe. We can’t give up, as long as we have planes …”

  Gabe let out a harsh laugh. “Are you kidding? What do we have left? A few P-40s with homemade mounts? There’s hardly any ammo for them. Not to mention our dwindling gas reservoirs.”

  “What about the others we’ve picked up? There’s the biplane, the Beechcraft, and a few of the guys salvaged a Navy Duck from the waters near the coast.”

  Even as Dan spoke the words, they sounded foolish to him. How were they to fight a war with that?

  “Oh, yes, your Bamboo Fleet. I forgot.” Gabe lifted his gaze. His voice softened. “Dan, please tell me that you are tired too, and I’m not just a wimp. I mean, we’re spending as much time finding food as trying to trick the Japs, and for what? I’m sick of eating monkeys and lizards. I’m tired of the bombings and news that Japs are breaking through, pushing back our lines. Aren’t you tired?”

  Dan placed a hand on Gabe’s shoulder, grabbing more bone than flesh. “Yeah, I’m tired, but we haven’t lost yet. We can’t give up. Just think of all the stories we’ll have to share back home.”

  Dan lowered his voice and used his fist for a microphone. “This is Yan Jinsuo on Radio Tokyo, reporting live from Manila with a Monday Night Special. Live Bombing by Sake-Crazed Soldiers. Sure to bring chills and thrills.” He leaned forward and placed one hand over his ear. “On the opposite side is MacArthur, who tries to fool us with stage props. Do not miss the thrilling event.”

  Gabe cracked the faintest smile. “Come along and bring a friend,” he added. “Sponsored by the Morale Office. Admission is free.”

  “Oh, it’s not free.” Dan rose and dusted off his trousers. “It might just cost us our ground artillery … which still smells of fresh paint.” He patted Gabe’s shoulder. “I’m not ready to quit yet. Not as long as we still have planes and bullets. In fact, I have a plan.”

  Dan walked for over an hour down the jungle road before hitching a ride with a jeep to make it back to headquarters. It was a small hut, and the phones seemed to ring continuously as Dan approached. Inside, bits of paper and other garbage littered the ground.

  The colonel stretched out his hand. “Good to see you, Lukens. Your men have been doing well on the front. But I have to admit it’s a surprise to see you. What brings you here?”

  Dan twisted his cap in hand. “As you know, sir, the Japs are landing in Subic Bay on the northwest coast. We have some 500-pound bombs left and some .50-caliber slugs. I know we can’t do much, but we can show them a little opposition. My P-40s are in top shape. And there are a few other fighter pilots who can tangle with the Zeros while I hit my mark. We can do this. It will help, I think. Build up morale.”

  The colonel smiled and tipped his hat at Dan. “Go for it, son. What’ve we got to lose?”

  Seventeen

  GENERAL FLIES OUT

  Washington, March 17—General Douglas MacArthur today became Supreme Commander of the United Nations forces in the Southwestern Pacific.

  A few hours after announcement of the action, President Roosevelt told a press conference that he was “sure that every American” agreed with his decision to take General MacArthur out of the Philippines.

  He recognized, he said, that Axis propaganda agents would see in this move abandonment of the Philippines, but this is not the case. General MacArthur will command everything, including sea and air forces, east of Singapore in the Southwestern Pacific, the President added, and will be more useful in Australia than on Bataan Peninsula.

  Charles Hurd

  Excerpt from the New York Times, March 18, 1942

  The bombing raid at Subic Bay was a success. And although the commander couldn’t offer Dan more fuel or planes, he did give him a field promotion, putting Dan in charge of even more men—just what he needed.

  Dan sat observing a small Filipino soldier as he loaded bullets into his rifle. While MacArthur’s army of Filipino soldiers seemed sufficient on paper, boasting over a hundred thousand men, Dan knew better. The Filipinos were as weak and ill prepared for fighting as this young man, and many couldn’t even communicate with each other due to their dozens of different dialects.

  More Filipinos joined Dan’s unit by the day, retreating from the ever-nearing front lines. As they staggered into camp, they reminded Dan of pictures he’d seen of ragged soldiers from Valley Forge—only these soldiers wore blue fatigue uniforms and tennis shoes held together by scraps of fabric and string.

  The soldier, who was at least a head shorter than Dan and even skinnier, finally lifted the Enfield rifle to his shoulder, aimed at a monkey in the tree, and pulled the trigger. The gun kicked back like a frightened mule, knocking the little guy onto his butt.

  “Ayyee!” he yelped. “I do that every time.”

  “Need some help?” Dan rose from the ground, his body weakened from minimal rations and overexposure to the elements.

  Most mornings he bathed in the murky creek waters, but it did little good. When the sun rose, his clothes became drenched with perspiration, and dust caked his face and hands. He felt more like an animal than a man, hiding in the covering of trees until the sun faded so he could scour the jungle for dinner.

  The Filipinos were experts at foraging. Most of Dan’s American soldiers woul
d be dead if it weren’t for the Filipinos pointing out edible plants and roots.

  Dan stretched out a hand and helped the soldier off the ground.

  “My name is Paulo.” He made the sign of the cross. “Like the famous apostle.”

  “Well, Paulo, it seems that gun is giving you trouble.” Dan strode to the hollowed log where he stored his supplies and pulled out a .25-caliber rifle that someone had recovered from the body of a Japanese infantryman.

  Dan ran his hand over the Mauser bolt action, then handed it over. “Here. This might be easier. Lighter, anyway. No use holding on to a souvenir when it could be put to good use.”

  “Thank you very much.” Paulo nodded his head vigorously.

  Suddenly the sounds of Jap fire and shouts of advancing soldiers rose like a distant roar. Getting closer.

  Their new assignment was to defend the sector between Manila Bay on the right and the foothills of the central mountains on the left. The sturdy mountain range in the center created a natural line of defense.

  I’m up. Might as well get back to work.

  With weary steps, Dan moved to the pile of old En-fields, grenades, and crates filled with air-cooled machine guns. The machine guns had been recently discovered in an abandoned transport truck and were designed for Douglas Dauntless dive-bombers. They were currently being used for a more practical purpose.

  He scanned the faces of his unit. Intermingled with the Filipinos were skilled men who’d previously worked with bombsights, radios, and delicate cockpit instruments. Now they attempted to hit ground targets with .30-caliber rifles that jammed more often than they fired.

  Dan watched as Paulo aimed at the target and pulled the trigger. The Jap gun had much less of a kick, and Paulo gave Dan a thumbs-up.

  More noise filtered through the jungle. This time it sounded like a single voice.

  Paulo lifted the rifle to try again, but Dan shook his head and placed a finger over his lips. Paulo motioned for the others to also be quiet.