Dawn of a Thousand Nights

by Tricia N. Goyer

  “Colonel!” Dan’s voice rose above the shuffling boots and low moans.

  Colonel Preston paused, and a crooked grin lifted a dirt-smudged lip. “Daniel. It’s good to see you.”

  Colonel Preston was a large fellow, at least six inches taller than Dan and probably weighing over 250 pounds. Though his face looked slightly thinner, Dan wondered how the man had been able to maintain his girth with such meager rations. Then Dan noticed the heavy barracks bag slung over the colonel’s shoulder. He walked awkwardly under its weight.

  “Do you need help with that, sir?”

  The colonel shot Dan a wary glance, and Dan could see his hands tightening their hold around the drawstrings.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got it.”

  “Can I ask what you’ve got in there?”

  “Extra shoes, uniforms. Just supplies I may need.”

  He didn’t mention food, though Dan was sure he could make out the shape of K-ration cans through the bulging fabric.

  “Well, if I may have the liberty, it might be a mistake to carry that much. We don’t know how long this will last. Perhaps you should reserve your strength.”

  “Oh, no.” The colonel shook his head. “I might need this gear.”

  Dan shrugged and hurried to catch up with José and Gabe, who had already passed.

  “See you around, sir,” Dan called back over his shoulder. Yet something in the pit of his stomach doubted his own words.

  “I’m not sure why he hasn’t been looted already, but I’ve got a bad feeling that when the Japs catch up to him, things will not go well.”

  Dan’s companions barely lifted their heads to acknowledge his words.

  “It’s old-fashioned thinking.” José shrugged. “Colonel’s been around awhile. He trusts the system and believes their promises.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “Not enough to walk one step without prayer. I have an awful feelin’ we’ve seen nothing yet.”

  A Jap soldier walked through the milling crowd and stuck a pole into the ground. From it hung a flag of the Rising Sun. Dan ignored the flag and instead glanced back, noting how far they’d come. Mount Bataan with its cool crater stretched behind them, jutting into the blue sky. In the distance, it seemed untouched by the tiny men who had fought on its sides. His group made it to Mariveles. It was official. Every hope of freedom had been left behind.

  Japanese enlisted men, dressed in patched and ragged uniforms, circled Dan’s group. One corporal, who had a thin moustache reminiscent of Adolf Hitler’s, strode up to Dan, moved his hand to his mouth, and inhaled.

  “No cigarettes. Sorry.” Dan shrugged his shoulders.

  It wasn’t the answer the Jap was looking for. Before Dan could react, the butt of the gun slammed into his forehead, and a warm wetness flowed from the spot.

  Everything within him told him to raise his hands, to defend himself. He refused, simply lowering his eyes in submission. Do it for Libby. You’re living for her now.

  Other Japs circled his buddies. For no apparent reason, one pounded José’s head with a bamboo stick filled with sand. Another motioned for them to raise their hands, then proceeded to frisk them for valuables. A cry arose from one man down the line. Dan glanced over from the corner of his eye, noting the sergeant stripes on his uniform.

  During the fighting, many officers and noncommissioned officers had removed their ranks for fear of becoming targets for the numerous Japanese snipers. After the surrender, some had put their rank back on, believing they would receive better treatment as dictated by the Geneva Convention. It appeared this wasn’t the case, and instead the sergeant was dragged off into a nearby clearing. Dan was thankful he’d left his stripes off.

  Other men were being called out of line too, and after studying their faces, Dan knew why. Their gazes peered off in what some called a thousand-yard stare. They looked into the horizon without seeing. Some trembled with spasms. One man not far from Dan yelled, “Boom, boom, boom” over and over again, his arm punctuating the air with each eruption of his voice.

  When they dragged those fellows off, Dan considered the act merciful. Until he remembered the mothers of those poor soldiers. To think one would invest so much in a life, only to have it end like this.

  They stood for what seemed like hours, and Dan shivered despite the sun that beat down on them like a furnace.

  “You have the chills, and your face is the color of dishwater.” Gabe wiped Dan’s forehead with a filthy handkerchief. “Malaria does that. Here.” He opened his canteen, gulping down the last of its contents. Then he shook it, and something rattled inside. A small bottle fell from the opening. “There is only a little quinine left, but it should help.”

  Dan took the bottle and drank it dry, wanting more than anything to curl up on the ground in a ball and fall asleep.

  “I don’t know what I would do without you.” Dan handed back the empty bottle.

  “I feel the same.” Gabe put it back in the canteen. “Just in case we can refill it later.”

  Gabe switched the shoulder strap of the canteen to the other side. His shirt drew tight across this chest, but instead of the outline of toned muscles, protruding ribs stuck out.

  “Looks like we’re heading out.” Gabe nodded to a line of jeeps moving forward. “Without even a break.”

  “I just wish I knew where to.”

  Gabe readjusted his helmet. “Sometimes, friend, it’s better not to know.”

  Libby wiped last night’s crumbs off the flower-embroidered tablecloth her mom had made and placed a plate of eggs and toast on the table before her father. He’d never gotten rid of the feminine touches around the house after Mom left. He probably hadn’t thought to. Or perhaps he’d hoped she’d return someday.

  For the last three meals, Libby had served eggs. Her father called them her specialty, but actually it was the only thing she knew how to fix that they could choke down. In Hawaii, cooking hadn’t been a problem. There were always fresh fruits and vegetables available. And smoked meats were cheap to pick up from the numerous barbecue pits around town.

  She wrinkled her nose at the smell of cooked eggs and thought longingly of pig roasts and mango groves.

  Her father folded his hands to pray, but instead of bowing his head, he immediately rose from the table and strode to the wood-paneled radio that sat on the armoire in the den.

  “Daddy, please, can’t we have one meal without that thing on?” She poured herself a glass of water, also remembering the fresh pineapple juice she used to enjoy.

  Her father flipped on the radio, then pointed out the kitchen window. “See that? It’s a sign from Evelyn Mead.”

  Sure enough, their widowed neighbor was leaning out the kitchen window, waving a white dish towel over her daffodil-filled flower box.

  “She listens to the thing nonstop, then lets me know when there’s something important.”

  Her dad fiddled with the tuner, and within seconds the excited, high-pitched voice of the radio announcer filled the air.

  “That’s right, ladies and gents, the Japs continue their swarming of the Pacific nations, hitting hard and overwhelming our gallant men. It’s been reported that yet another of our strongholds has fallen under the hand of the Imperial Japanese Army. Just this morning word arrived that General King, in an attempt to save the lives of his remaining men, has surrendered his American-Filipino army to the Japanese. That’s right, ladies and gents, surrendered.”

  Libby set down her glass, but it caught the edge of the plate, spilling all over the table. She covered her mouth with her hand and glanced at her father.

  “Thousands of men have died in recent months of fighting: infantrymen, tank drivers, pilots … all giving their lives in hopes of stopping the Japs. But to no avail. Here they are, MacArthur’s very words, rebroadcast so you can hear his response to the situation yourself.”

  MacArthur’s saddened voice filled the airwaves: “The Bataan force went out as it would have wished, fighting to
the end of its flickering forlorn hope. No army has ever done so much with so little, and nothing became it more than its lasting hour of trial and agony.

  “To the weeping mothers of its dead, I can only say that the sacrifice and halo of Jesus of Nazareth has descended upon their sons, and that God will take them unto Himself.”

  Libby began wiping up the water on the table. Then she pushed the plate of eggs in front of her father. “You better eat before they get cold.”

  He took her hand between his.

  “They weren’t talking about Dan.” She looked away. “He’s not dead. You saw the newspaper article yourself. They’re speaking of others.”

  He caressed her hand with his thumb. She looked at him, and he only nodded.

  “Of course, you’re right. I’m sure you’ll hear something. They’ll notify the government with the names of their prisoners soon.”

  The word prisoner stabbed like a knife to her heart. Even if Dan were alive … what was he facing now?

  Libby pushed back from the table and stood. “I’m not hungry. I think I’ll head to the airfield for a while.”

  Her father took a sip of his coffee. “You do that, but remember: There will come a time when you’ll have to face your emotions. Not every problem is solved by getting in the cockpit.”

  “Yes, but at least I can escape for a while. You know the cardinal rule for pilots—don’t take your problems up in the air.”

  Day and night seemed to blur as their column trudged on. American generals and privates walked alongside Filipino soldiers and civilians. On the road lit by a huge orb of a moon, Dan even noticed a few American nurses who’d joined them.

  With every mile it seemed a new rumor was circulating. The current one stated that an agreement had been made between the United States and Japan. There were no details, but some believed they were being marched to a nearby harbor where American transport ships awaited, ready to make a prisoner trade.

  As they trudged forward, a heavy stench filled Dan’s nostrils. The slit trenches that had been dug along the roadside now overflowed. Many prisoners suffered from dysentery brought on by exhaustion and the lack of sufficient food and water.

  Those who took too long at the trenches soon found themselves the targets of numerous blows, and before long the roadway consisted of a thick sludge of fecal waste and mud from those fearful of leaving the path.

  Yet despite the stench, Dan was thankful for the cool of darkness.

  When he didn’t think he could take another step, they were corralled into a small field and given a ladleful of water each. Dan slurped it down greedily and thanked the Japanese soldier who’d brought it with a bow of his head.

  As they rested, Jap soldiers moved among them. They held their rifles flat and prepared for the smallest outburst. Even in the dim light, Dan noted their suspicious gaze, their glaring eyes.

  Before long the GIs were on their feet again, as the warm glow of dawn cast ribbons of light on the mountains. The only water they were allowed to fill their canteens with was green muck from a caribou wallow. Dan did the best he could to strain out the solid sludge with his shirttails.

  In addition to the foot soldiers, Japanese officers strode back and forth in the road, their samurai swords in bamboo cases clacking against their black boots.

  The cool of dawn gradually turned into a hot morning; and the more they marched, the hotter it grew. The roadway had changed, becoming wider and paved with crushed rock. Dan didn’t know what was worse, the sludge they’d just tromped through or the white clouds of dust now kicked up by their shuffling steps. It made breathing difficult and blinded their view of what lay ahead.

  The men began to falter. Some cried for water. Others stumbled and never rose. All suffered from hunger.

  Memories of combat haunted them. Dan thought of soldiers strewn over the airfield after the bombing raids. The numbers of bodies along the sides of the road that increased by the hour. Oliver’s plane bursting into flames.

  About midday, José gradually dropped back. Dan and the others slowed in an attempt to encourage him. When that didn’t work, they took turns supporting him, dragging him along.

  Cries from approaching Japs changed all that. With quick jabs of their gun butts, Dan was prodded forward. He had no choice but to release José and continue on. After they’d taken twenty steps, the young man’s cries could be heard.

  Dan paused slightly, but Gabe grabbed his arm and urged him on. “Don’t stop. Don’t look back. There’s nothing we can do for him now.”

  A single shot rang out. Dan cursed under his breath, but he heeded Gabe’s advice and continued forward. José had faith. Where is the God he believed in now?

  As noon approached, Dan lifted his head, certain he again heard the rumble of vehicles on the roadway ahead. A Japanese guard ran up and motioned them to the side of the road.

  The first to pass were Japanese horse artillery. The Japs hurriedly moved by, eager to get the weapons to Corregidor where American soldiers still fought to hold that small bit of land. Behind them a 1942 Cadillac drove down the road. A wooden platform had been attached to the roof.

  “What the heck is that?” Gabe scratched his forehead.

  Before Dan had a chance to respond, the car stopped, and the driver and single Japanese passenger jumped out. The passenger scrambled onto the platform while the driver scurried to the car’s trunk and pulled out a tripod and camera, handing them up.

  The cameraman waved his hands, motioning the prisoners to move close together. They complied, and he nodded his approval. The cameraman snapped a few photos and then climbed down and returned to the car. It sped off in search of the next photo opportunity.

  Dan ran a hand down his face. “Looks like we might be in all the Jap papers soon. They should’ve warned us. We could’ve shaved first.”

  A slam of a rifle butt brought shooting pain down Dan’s spine, and he woke with a scream, then hurried to his feet.

  “I think they want us up,” he gasped, sputtering out the gob of dust that had settled in his mouth as he slept. He bent over and reached for Gabe. His whole body ached, and it seemed as if they’d just lain down. And maybe they had; the sky was still dark. “Come on. You gotta get up.”

  “Don’t think I can make it. My leg.” Gabe’s voice was raspy. “The Jap hit me in the leg!”

  Dan glanced over his shoulder, anticipating the next blow. Instead, the Jap was occupied in cutting a wedding band off a soldier who’d succumbed during the night.

  “Hurry. There’s no time.”

  Dan pulled Gabe to his feet, and they limped along, staying as close to the center of the road as possible. The banyan trees along the sides of the road were black against the morning sky as their small group of men joined a milling mob, an endless line, its staggering members moving ever forward.

  The road they marched on was about twenty feet wide and constructed of rock covered with crushed stone. Their footsteps stirred up a heavy white dust, which settled on them and made the half-dead soldiers look like ghosts in the headlights of Japanese trucks.

  After an hour passed, Dan scanned up and down the road. There were no Japs in sight. He turned to Gabe. “Would it help if we rested a few minutes? We should be safe.”

  Pain distorted Gabe’s features, and Dan noticed thick blood weeping from his leg wound. Gabe nodded with a violent shock, as if not caring whether they moved forward or remained at this spot forever.

  Dan eased his friend’s hand from around his shoulders and lowered him to the ground. Suddenly the rumble of a truck filled the air; and before he could react, a metal object crashed upon Dan’s head, knocking off his helmet.

  He wrapped his arms over the back of his neck, recognizing the cold, hard metal of a rifle. More cries filled his ears. Gabe. Dan moved toward his friend, attempting to block the blows; but before he could reach Gabe, strong arms thrust him back on his feet and pushed him back into line.

  “Wait, Gabe!” Dan craned his neck to get
a view of his buddy. He was huddled on the ground in the fetal position. His cries grew weaker with each blow.

  “Let me go!” Dan pulled against the arms that held him and amazingly felt them release. Staggering back, he dropped to Gabe’s side.

  “You want help your friend? You think you save him?” The Jap lowered his voice several notches to make it sound deeper, harsher.

  Dan glanced up at the Japanese soldier, who spoke in English.

  “Go ahead, GI Joe. You want to help. You carry.”

  Without hesitation, Dan bent over and scooped up Gabe’s thin frame into his arms. Though now limp, heavy breathing shuddered from Gabe’s frame.

  “You go now, GI. Don’t stop. Don’t put down. You take your man with you.” With a laugh, the Jap returned Dan’s helmet to his head.

  Dan spoke steadily in Gabe’s ear. “It’s okay now, buddy. I’ve got you.” He took a step forward.

  Gabe’s body hung limp, his feet dragging along the ground. Ten steps later, Dan knew he’d made a mistake. The days on the road without food or water made it hard enough to carry himself, let alone Gabe.

  “I need you to work with me here. Walk with me. Move your feet.”

  Gabe let out a low moan, but amazingly he obeyed. One foot lifted awkwardly, then another.

  “There you go. That’s it.” The steps quickened, nearly matching his own.

  Then, before he realized what was happening, another soldier approached from behind. Without a word, he took Gabe’s free arm and swung it over his own shoulders.

  Dan glanced over to see a stocky man with black hair. He looked Italian, and his ruddy skin looked healthier than any Dan had seen for months.

  Dan shook his head in a warning. “You better not. They’ll—”

  The dark-haired man shrugged his shoulders. “I’m fine. They’re not paying attention.” Their steps quickened—even Gabe’s, who nearly carried his own weight between them.