Dawn of a Thousand Nights

by Tricia N. Goyer

  “Did you hear that?” Dan cupped his hand around his ear. “I’m certain it’s a Jap voice.”

  Paulo nodded his head. “It is. I know some Japanese words. He’s injured and has been sent into the woods. He cries out for his emperor to find favor with him.”

  “Injured? Why don’t his comrades help him? Should we call a medic?” Gabe neared, his rifle in hand.

  “No!” the shout from the Filipino surprised Dan. “Do you not know? We saw it many times on front lines. The Japanese kill their hurting. They make weak the group.” Paulo pressed his rifle to his shoulder and hunkered down behind a log, as if he expected the enemy to burst through the woods any moment. “And those they do not kill, they give grenade.”

  “For them to commit suicide?” Dan also lowered himself behind the log.

  “And to take out a few Americanos. The injured soldiers cry for help. When the Americans arrive, they blow them up.”

  Despite the heat, Dan felt a shiver creep up the base of his neck. “Kill someone who’s trying to save your life?”

  Paulo lowered his gaze and lifted the crucifix that hung around his neck, pressing it to his lips. “The priest, he helped me understand. They do it for love. For their country and emperor. They are his children.”

  “Maybe love.” Dan’s thoughts moved to the Jap friend he knew once. “Or maybe fear of dishonor.” He slid his finger over the barrel of his rifle, and more Japanese voices joined the first. “Either way, it’s not right to hurt someone who wants to save you.”

  Libby looked around the bare apartment. It was the last night she would sleep on the island. Mr. Atkins had used his connection with a distant cousin—a congressman in California—to secure her passage to San Francisco. But it had come too late. By the time she’d arrive home in mid-March, her chance to fly with Jackie Cochran would already be gone. Libby pulled the telegram from her pocket and reread it again.

  MRS. JACQUELINE COCHRAN REQUESTS MISS LIBBY CONNERS LEAVE FOR ENGLAND FIRST OF MARCH TO JOIN WOMEN’S FERRYING UNIT STOP PLEASE RESPOND IMMEDIATELY STOP TRULY YOURS JACQUELINE STOP

  A knock sounded at the door, and Libby slid the telegram into her pocket. She opened the door to find Rose.

  Her friend’s eyebrows were knotted in worry. “I just heard the news.” Rose swept in the door with the fragrance of spring trailing her. “And it’s true—you’re leaving.”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you for days. I’m going home after all.”

  With nowhere to sit, Rose paced the bare living room, her yellow skirt swishing around her legs. “Are you sure? I really don’t think you should leave. Didn’t your dad want you to stay put until things calm a bit?”

  “I’ll be fine. My father’s a worrywart. He didn’t want me to be a flight instructor or to come here in the first place.”

  “But I heard on the radio just last night that the Japs are sinking commercial ships.” Rose gave Libby a hug. “I just can’t lose you too.”

  “All good things must come to an end, and I have to go home now,” Libby whispered into Rose’s ear. “The weather here is fabulous, the students were pleasant, the planes wonderful … and our friendship the best. But really, if I can’t fly, I’m of no use.”

  She pulled away and turned to the window, glancing toward the distant harbor. “And it doesn’t seem as if Dan will be returning any time soon.”

  “It’s amazing how fast things change. You in that plane, coming so close to losing your life. And at the same time Jack …” Rose bit her lip.

  Libby placed her fists on her hips. The last thing she wanted was the two of them to spend their remaining moments together in tears. “Yeah, speaking of which, I need to send a bill to the Imperial Japanese Army.” Libby tensed her jaw. “After their little fiasco, my student ran off. The guy never did pay.”

  Rose laughed. “I don’t know how you do it, but I’ll miss the way you make me smile.”

  “Here’s hoping you won’t miss me for long.” She slid the telegram out of her pocket and held it out to Rose. “I’m going to try for a job with the WAACs, and I’ll recommend you too. It’s too late for this assignment, but I’m sure something else will come up. It just has to.”

  “You received a telegram from the Jackie Cochran? The one and only? Humdinger.” Rose punched an arm into the air. “Well, now, this is a different story. This just might be something worth traveling Jap-infested waters for.”

  Dan felt as if someone had punched him in the gut, as he sat with his unit in the cover of darkness, listening to the broadcast from Tokyo on Gabe’s battery-operated radio. He would have thought it was a hoax, a ploy to weaken their moral, if it weren’t for General MacArthur’s own voice speaking over the airwaves.

  “Men of Bataan and Corregidor. After declining to leave you twice before, I have now received orders from our commander in chief to proceed to Australia and take command there. Men, I must leave you now, but you have my solemn oath that if God spares me, I will be back to stay. Have faith, men! God bless you!”

  It gave little consolation that the general’s voice trembled with sadness and sincerity. They had been abandoned.

  “Hey, turn that thing off. I think I hear something.” José spoke in a fearful whisper.

  Gabe obliged, and soon the sound of their heavy breathing was the only noise that filled Dan’s ears.

  “Are you sure?” Dan whispered.

  “Shhhhh.” The soldier placed a finger over his lips.

  The sound came first as a shuffle of foliage. Then the clear sound of footsteps.

  José lifted his rifle to the edge of the foxhole and pointed it in the direction of the noise. “Who’s there?” he called out. “Reveal yourself!”

  “It’s me, Paulo! Don’t shoot! Mr. Dan, are you in there?”

  Dan placed his hand on José’s rifle. “It’s okay. He’s one of us. Yes, Paulo,” he answered. “We’re here. To your left. In the foxhole behind the log.”

  Within seconds the small Filipino slid into the hole, joining them. “I found papers in the jungle. The Japs send messages. They dropped them from the sky.”

  Gabe pulled out his lighter. Its small flame danced before the bated breath of a dozen men. Dan held up the leaflet and read the text.

  “PROCLAMATION. Bataan Peninsula is about swept away: important points of southern Luzon between Ternate and Nasugbu are in the hands of Japanese forces and mouth of Manila Bay is under complete control of the Japanese Navy. Hopes for the arrival of reinforcements are quite in vain. The fate of Corregidor Island is sealed.”

  Dan swore under his breath and then continued.

  “If you continue to resist, the Japanese Forces will by every possible means destroy and annihilate your forces relentlessly to the last man. This is your final chance to cease resistance. Further resistance is completely useless. Your commander will sacrifice every man, and in the end will surrender in order to save his life. You, dear soldiers, take it into consideration and give up your arms and stop resistance at once. Commander in Chief of the Imperial Japanese Forces.”

  No one spoke at first; then Gabe threw down the lighter and snatched the leaflet from Dan’s hand. “Give me that.”

  He climbed out of the foxhole, his boots flicking clumps of dirt on their heads.

  “What are you doing?” Dan stood. “You think you can take on the Jap army yourself? Or are you planning to march to headquarters and give Wainwright a piece of your mind?”

  Gabe blew out a harsh laugh. “No, Dan, I’ve given up trying to be the hero. But if you must know, I’m going to the slit trench to take a dump. I just needed some paper.”

  It was dusk when they arrived. City lights were just beginning to sparkle as Libby’s ship steamed under the Golden Gate Bridge into the San Francisco Bay. Oahu had been under blackout conditions so long she’d forgotten the beauty of lights reflecting on water. The air here was cold and crisp. Libby pulled her jacket tighter to her chin as the cool, salty breeze played with her hair.

&nb
sp; The ground seemed to sway under her as she disembarked, and she hurried down the pier. A woman and a photographer waited near the end of docks, making Libby wonder if there’d been an official or celebrity on board. The two waved as she approached, and Libby turned to see who was behind her. Except for a few sailors unloading the luggage and cargo, there was no one.

  “Miss Conners! Miss Conners! Please, may we have a word with you?”

  Libby pointed to herself, and the reporter nodded vigorously, her red-lipped smile filling her face.

  “I’m Lee Donnelly with the Associated Press. This is my photographer, Lou Davis. We were wondering if we could interview you?”

  Libby folded her arms tight to her chest. “What’s this about?”

  Lee slid a pencil from the tight bun at the base of her neck. “Your experiences on Pearl Harbor, of course. I think the world will be fascinated to learn about a woman pilot who was soaring the skies of Oahu when the Japs swooped in, and who helped pull an injured pilot from a burning plane. The senator who issued your travel permit gave me the scoop.”

  “Okay, but can we do this over a cup of hot tea? I’m sorry, but I’m used to much warmer weather.”

  “Sure thing.” Lee pressed her hand to Libby’s back and guided her through the complex of docks. “But just make sure you start from the beginning. I want the whole story.”

  Libby gazed out the window as she rode in the truck’s passenger seat next to her dad.

  The little town of Olive City in northern California seemed smaller than she remembered, as if someone simply decided to plop a few buildings in the middle of olive orchards.

  “Alvin Tourney was killed at Pearl Harbor, you know.” Her dad pointed to the Towne Pump gas station where Alvin used to work. “Didn’t you go to school with him?”

  Just like Dad. Libby reached over and took his hand. It always takes twenty minutes of small talk to warm him up. I’m bursting inside to see him, and he’s always even-keeled.

  “Alvin was a year behind me. Real sweet kid. If I’d known he was on the island, I could have looked him up.”

  “Been meaning to head to the store.” He turned their old truck onto the main highway, heading out of town. “Don’t have much for meat. No sugar for coffee neither. The rationing, you know. Doesn’t look like things will let up anytime soon. Radio says the German army is deep in Russia. Fighting’s intense in North Africa and the Pacific too.” He pushed his hat back farther off his forehead. “Times like these a man’s happy to have a girl child instead of a boy. At least I know you’ll be safe. Not off fighting on some distant shore.” He glanced at her with a bright twinkle in his eye. “You always were my little olive pit.”

  Libby scooted closer. She wrapped her arms around her father’s shoulders, then planted a large kiss on his whiskered cheek. “Oh, Daddy, you sure know the way to warm a girl’s heart. I don’t care about meat, or coffee and sugar, for that matter. You know what I’m itching for?”

  “The sky, of course.” He cast a grin, then scratched his bearded cheek. “I told old Charlie to fuel up the jalopy—he owed me a favor. That plane’s been mighty bored just spraying trees. It misses you.”

  Libby squeezed tighter and rested her cheek on her father’s shoulder. “I missed you too, Daddy. And you know what?” She sat up again, realizing for the first time how frail her dad appeared, how much he’d aged. “I missed the first boat with those lady pilots, but I’m hoping to catch the next ride. Do they still have that Link trainer at the airport in Sacramento? I’d be interested in taking those instruments courses. I hear the new trainer even pitches and yaws in sync with the pilot’s actions.”

  “Sure, but I doubt you’ll get much time to yourself. Everyone’s eager to meet the lady pilot who escaped the Japs by the skin of her teeth.” He reached under the seat and pulled out a copy of the New York Herald. Libby, fresh from the ship with her dark hair puffing around her face, smiled from the front page.

  “The New York Herald. You can’t be serious! Do you think other papers have picked up the story too?”

  “I think they just might have, from the constant ringing of my telephone. The thing’s rung more the last ten hours than it did all last year.” He patted her knee. “But let’s not worry about that now. The jalopy’s waiting, and some dad-and-daughter time is in order.”

  Libby smiled and turned the paper over in her hand. Then something caught her eye. One-man Scourge of the Japs.

  Pilot Dan Lukens claims that as long as there’s a plane to fly on Bataan, he’ll be in the air. On March 3, news reached Lukens that the Japs had landed on Bataan. Attaching a bomb to his still-flyable P-40, Lukens took to the sky. On his first mission he missed with his bomb, but sprayed the ships and barges with .50-caliber slugs.

  Loading up again, Lukens dive-bombed a freighter from 10,000 feet. Pulling out at 2,000, he hit it squarely. Debris and smoke mushroomed gloriously. Again the P-40 strafed the area.

  On his third mission, Lukens hit an enormous supply dump on an island in the middle of the bay. Then, with his six machine guns, he attacked a transport slipping out of Subic Bay. Incredibly, this ship caught fire, and it too blew up. The bay was a holocaust. Later the Japanese claimed it had been raided by three flights of four-engine bombers.

  The other fighter pilots had been carrying the fight to the enemy too, but by the end of the day, Lukens’s plane was the only P-40 left on Bataan. With men like Lukens in our ranks, how could we not win this war?

  A shrill of joyful laughter escaped her lips. No picture accompanied the story, but Libby’s eyes scanned the text a second time. “He’s alive. Dan’s alive!”

  Her father craned his neck toward the paper. “Who’s alive? What this about?”

  “My fiancé, Dan. And he’s giving the Japs a run for their money. Daddy, my Dan is alive!”

  “You don’t say.”

  Libby glanced at her father. It wasn’t joy that she saw in his eyes, but worry—concern that his little girl would once again lose someone she loved and get hurt all over again.

  Eighteen

  SERVICE ON BATAAN MOST IMPRESSIVE:

  MEN ATTEND EASTER RITES

  WHILE ENEMY BOMBERS THREATEN

  With General Wainwright’s forces in the Philippines, April 5 (Delayed) (AP)—They came with revolvers or automatic pistols slung on their belts. Many of them carried rifles. There wasn’t a necktie or a pressed uniform in the lot. But it was a most impressive Easter service.

  Many soldiers, sailors, and marines—all part of this gallant band defending this tiny strip of land—admitted it was the first time they had attended a church service in years.

  Excerpt from the New York Times, April 7, 1942

  Dan didn’t realize it was his own voice crying out in the night until he felt Gabe’s hands shaking him.

  “Wake up. Are you nuts? You’re going to lead the Japs straight to us!”

  Dan opened his eyes to view what looked like an apparition of the man he used to know. Heavy, dark circles hung under Gabe’s eyes. His cheekbones protruded, giving him an eerie appearance in the pre-dawn glow.

  Dan grabbed his hand. “You’re alive. You’re okay.” He breathed his words out with a sigh of relief.

  “For the time being, at least. But I have to admit, things aren’t looking that great.”

  Dan nodded and sucked in heavy breaths as he eyed the nearby acadia trees for signs of his parachute. The form of an owl in its branches was the only thing he could make out. It had only been a dream. He ran a hand over his scraggly beard, remembering.

  In the dream, he’d been forced to bail out of his plane, his body drifting to the earth but never arriving. As he hovered, he watched Jap planes bomb his buddies. Finally, as he neared the ground, his parachute tangled in tree limbs. He’d swung there, unable to move as the responsibility for all those deaths pressed on his shoulders. If I’d stayed with my plane, I could’ve stopped the bombing … He searched his dream over and over, forgetting the reason he’d baile
d in the first place.

  Gabe placed a cool hand on Dan’s forehead. “Gee, man, you’re burning up. I’m gonna see if I can get a medic to check you.” He scrambled out of their dugout. “Try to rest. We may be heading out soon.”

  Heading out?

  Then Dan remembered. The Japanese had opened their attack against the Bagac-Orion line yesterday, and the whole southern half of Bataan had shaken with great clouds of dust. Yet they could do little to help. Their orders had been to remain here, to hold this line of defense no matter what came their way.

  But only stragglers came. Injured soldiers hoping to make it to the hospitals in the rear. Since gasoline was depleted, there were no longer rides to take them back.

  “It is the anniversary of the beginning rule of Emperor Jimmu, the first emperor,” Paulo had informed the group. “I used to work for a Japanese man. He always celebrated this holy day.”

  Dan considered the holy days celebrated back home. Soon it would be Easter. Memories flooded him of egg hunts at the local park, pressed suits with itchy collars, and spit-shined oxfords. He also thought of childhood Sunday school stories. Of the thin and frail Jesus hanging on the tree, carrying the sins of the world.

  Hanging on a tree … how did He ever bear it?

  Dan pressed his fingertips to his throbbing temples. He stood and peeked over the edge of the dugout, hoping the fighting had settled in the night. He placed his hands on the edge and tried to pull himself out.

  Where’s Gabe? I need to tell him about the dream …

  His arms refused to hold his weight, and he slid back into the hole, scattering more dirt on top of him. Two months still remained until the rainy season, and all moisture had evaporated. The jungle floor was ankle-deep with fine silt. Silt that now covered him and everything else like a blanket.

  In the distance a giant flare burst, and the ghostly glow of magnesium filled the sky. Closer, a machine gun opened up, shooting small streaks of red tracers through the air. He pressed his hands to his ears, willing the noise to stop. Lately, there hadn’t been a moment without the crash of bombs and shells. And he couldn’t remember how many days they’d hovered in foxholes with little food. Mainly, it was their nervous energy keeping them going.