Dawn of a Thousand Nights

by Tricia N. Goyer

  The guards motioned for them to line up in rows of three and march. But their marching was more like a stagger. The ground seemed to sway under Dan’s clumsy attempts at keeping step.

  As they walked through the streets, huge crowds of Japanese gathered. Civilians gawked and pointed. Women muffled laughs. Old men and children swung heavy sticks, striking those who wobbled along the sides or in the rear.

  “Hayaku, hayaku!” the guards shouted. “Faster, faster!” Hustling as quickly as they could, they finally reached their destination. One-story cinder-block barracks stood in neat lines. Surrounding the barracks was a six-foot-tall wooden fence, topped with two feet of barbed wire. Behind that, beautiful green hills jutted from the earth.

  So this is Japan.

  In the open courtyard, they were ordered to undress. Dan did so, making sure the pocketknife and photo of Libby were safely tucked in his socks.

  As soon as they undressed, a group of jabbering Japanese women hurried out to spray them from head to toe with disinfectant. The women wore coveralls with masks over their faces and gloves on their hands. In spite of the masks, Dan got the gist of their lively chatter. He felt his face redden, and he attempted to cover his genitals.

  He cleared his throat and turned to Gabe. “How nice! The last woman to see me naked was my mother when she changed my diapers … I wish I could thank these ladies for a good time.”

  When they were finished being sprayed, Dan grasped his thin arms around his equally thin body and hopped from foot to foot, shivering in the crisp air. Bits of gravel had stuck to his swollen feet, causing him to wince in pain.

  Finally, they were handed clean clothes and told to dress. Dan and Gabe glanced at each other, then back to the Japanese-style clothing. They held up the shirts and pants—all one size. Dan slid it on, amazed that the clothing fit around the waist and chest. It was far too short in the arms and legs, of course, but it was clean.

  The last piece of clothing was a strip of white cloth, nearly two feet long and a foot wide with a string at one end. Dan turned to Gabe. “What’s this? A turban?”

  Gabe chuckled, unbuttoning his pants. “Dan. It’s like a loincloth. You tie the string around your waist and pull the other end of the cloth up. Then through and over.”

  Dan undressed and tried again, this time finishing his outfit off with the typical Japanese rubber-and-canvas work shoes that buttoned on the side and had a split section for the big toe. His heels hung off the back.

  Dan ran a hand down his bearded face, then spread his arms out, turning to Gabe. “Well, how do I look?”

  “Honest?” Gabe cocked an eyebrow and blew into his hands for warmth. “Like a piece of crap.”

  “Yeah.” Dan smirked, taking in Gabe’s long tangled hair, thick black beard, and sunken cheeks. “You too.”

  When everyone had dressed, the group was herded to an enclosed area. Dan paused, wanting to shout a hallelujah as he saw the spread of food awaiting them. Hot rice, fresh water, bowls, chopsticks, and hot tea in tin cups. He was sure he’d never seen a more beautiful sight in his life—except for Libby, of course. Although after so many nights apart, the memory of her was beginning to fade.

  After they finished their meal, they were led into the barracks, where three men were forced to share each bunk. Gabe and Dan shared with another soldier they didn’t know. They slept head to foot to make more room.

  “How long did you know Libby?” Gabe’s voice whispered in the dark.

  Dan turned to glimpse his friend’s face over the pair of feet between them. The question didn’t surprise Dan. Seeing the Japanese women, getting clean and fed, had made the men feel as though they were back in the land of the living.

  “It’s been over a year since we met, and we only had four months together. But it seemed like I’d known her forever. Being with her—” He broke off.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. It’s corny.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well … she reminded me of Thanksgiving.”

  “Thanksgiving?”

  He could hear the smirk in his friend’s voice.

  “Yeah, you know that feeling when you glance around the table, with a full stomach, and see all the happy faces of your family? I used to think, It can’t get any better than this.”

  Gabe chuckled. “Actually, with my brothers, their wives, and all our kids, Thanksgiving was like a Ringling Brothers three-ring circus—only without the tent, or sawdust, or elephants, for that matter.”

  “But you know what I mean, right? It’s like contentment, comfort, and expectation all wrapped into one.”

  “Yeah, I know that feeling. But it’s been so long. Sometimes I think Joyce is only an illusion. I wonder if she’s still out there, thinking about me like I’m thinking of her.”

  Dan’s throat tightened. “I don’t wonder. I know Libby’s out there—up there—tearing up the sky. I just hope I make it out of here.”

  Tomorrow he’d face reality again and hide any hint of his feelings. The Japs could sense weakness. They feasted on GI emotions like a bird of prey flipping over its kill to reach its soft underbelly.

  “ ’Night, Gabe,” Dan finally said.

  “Good night. Sweet dreams.”

  Dan closed his eyes. “I sure hope so.”

  Dan had been dreaming of a kiss, but it was a strong hand across his face that woke him to another dark morning. His breath misted before him, and his heels stung from the cold of the stone floor as the guards prodded them through the long, windowless room, screaming and waving their fists. No matter how many mornings he’d faced such awakenings, he’d never gotten used to these human alarm clocks.

  After a breakfast of slushy brown rice and tea, they were hurried onto a waiting train. Dan thought how ridiculous this group of hundreds of Americans must look with bony legs sticking out the ends of their too-short pants. By the light of the rising sun, the guards motioned for them to board—not in the cattle cars in back, but in the regular coaches. Dan sat down, sinking his aching body into the red, cushioned seat near the aisle. The soldier near the window lifted his thin hand to the blackout curtains hung in front of the glass.

  “Uh, I don’t think you should—” Dan warned, but before he could get the words out, a guard was upon them, jamming the butt of his rifle into the man’s fingers. When the guard hurried away, Dan leaned over. “I think those curtains are there for intelligence reasons. They don’t want us to spy on them.”

  The man held his fingers to his chest, blood staining his light green shirt. “Thanks for saying so. A little late, don’t you think?”

  “Sorry.” Dan leaned his head back, and his body relaxed as the train pulled out, speeding from the station with a gentle sway.

  He must have drifted off, because in what seemed like only minutes later, bento boxes were handed out to each man. Dan opened his meal box made out of balsa wood. Inside he found rice, pickled seaweed, pickled cherries, and even a pickled miniature bird. He hungrily ate every bit, especially relishing the pure, white rice—not the slop they’d been living on for so many months.

  Even though they couldn’t see outside, Dan knew from the slow, upward chugging of the train that they were heading into the mountains. Every so often, he’d hear a loud hissing noise as the train stopped to pick up civilian passengers, loading them into other cars.

  Six hours later the train whistle blew, and they disembarked. He found Gabe, and they joined the masses of GIs lining up, three abreast. As they began marching through the village nestled into the hillside, Gabe let out a couple of raspy coughs.

  “You okay, man?”

  “I’m fine, I guess.” Gabe pointed toward the village. “Reminds me of photos in one of my sons’ storybooks.” He scratched his dark beard. “Andy and William loved that story.” He coughed again, then quieted and stared out at the miniature bamboo homes with their curved-up roofs and gnarled trees dotting the roadside.

  In the green rolling hills, squatting people
dropped their hoes and scurried from fields and yards to investigate the Americans. A little boy ran up, his eyes almost closed as he snickered. He rolled up his pants and rubbed his face as if feeling a beard. Then he started marching alongside, slumped, limping. Dan ignored him and kept walking. The air was frigid. He rubbed his hands up and down his arms for warmth. After an hour of hiking the increasingly stony road in ill-fitting shoes, his feet ached. How much farther before reaching their new “home”?

  Gabe hacked like a barking seal as they marched. His face had turned pasty white.

  “Are you okay?” Dan slowed down.

  Gabe’s shoulders shook in another fit of coughing. “I don’t know if I can make it.”

  “Sure you can.” Dan slung his friend’s arm over his shoulders and helped support his weight. “We’ve made it this far. It’s no time to give up now. Besides, after that train ride I’m thinking things will get better.”

  After a five-mile march, they approached a large compound. Gray clouds replaced the crystal blue sky, and the Japanese guards hurried them inside barbed-wire gates with shouts and waves of their bamboo sticks.

  Gabe limped along, and Dan pulled on his arm. “Come on, we don’t want to get stuck in back.”

  Too late. With a swing of his stick, a guard slammed the rod into Gabe’s back. The force knocked him to the ground. Gabe sprawled, hitting his face on the packed dirt, and cried out in pain. The guard stood over him, screaming words of Japanese they couldn’t understand. Dan rushed over and helped Gabe to his feet. Amazingly, the guard allowed it. Dan hurried, nearly dragging Gabe through the gates.

  A barbed-wire fence circled the camp with guard towers. Three dozen barracks were arranged in neat, straight rows. The camp was clean, but a chill traveled down Dan’s back as the gates closed behind them, locking them in once more.

  Once inside the gates, the guards motioned for them to circle a small platform. A Japanese officer mounted the wooden block with an interpreter at his side.

  The officer spoke in Japanese, and the interpreter repeated his words. “We will win the war against the Americans. Your country has broken off trade with our people, causing a great suffering. You also have our countrymen interned in your camps. Your country cages our women and children like animals.”

  A hot wave washed over Dan as he listened to the interpreter’s voice, and he leaned forward to get a closer look. Natty. He shook his head. “It can’t be.”

  He turned to Gabe, whispering. “I know that interpreter.” His knees grew weak, and an upsurge of hope rushed through him. “It’s my friend. I know him!”

  Gabe turned to Dan, wide-eyed. “Shhh.” He covered a cough, then angled his chin toward a guard who weaved through the crowd, heading their direction. “No talking.”

  The guard stopped just behind Dan as a warning, and Dan turned his eyes to the platform, focusing on the face of the man speaking, willing Natsuo to look his way.

  “You will work hard for the emperor,” he continued. “Your job is in the coal mines. You will salute or bow to any Japanese you see. If you do not, you will receive severe punishment.”

  The interpreter’s voice—Natty’s voice—droned on, and Dan’s mind was transported back to UCLA.

  They had met in an English literature class. Dan was having a hard time, but for Natsuo the course was nearly impossible. The eager student had mastered the English language, but the nature of English poetry was a mystery to him.

  “In Japan,” he had explained, “poetry follows certain patterns, like haiku. Once you understand the pattern, the message is easy to grasp. But here, sometimes you use words literally and other times symbolically. Every one has a different form. Why make it so hard?”

  Natsuo asked many questions in class and was eager to learn, but other students soon grew weary of his constant interruptions.

  “Why don’t you just go back to your own country?” another student commented as they exited class one day.

  “Ah, don’t mind him.” Dan strode up and patted the Japanese student’s shoulder. “I have a hard time with it too, and I grew up speaking this language. Why don’t we meet for lunch sometime? We can work on our assignments together.”

  “I’d like that.” Out of habit, Natsuo offered a quick bow.

  Dan straightened the other fellow’s shoulders. “On one condition … no more of that bowing stuff. Deal?” He stretched out his hand.

  Natsuo vigorously shook his hand. “Deal.”

  They decided to study Emily Dickinson for their class project and made plans to meet the next day.

  “I’m Natsuo,” the Japanese student said as they parted. “But you can call me Natty. It’s a more American-sounding name, don’t you agree?”

  “Yeah, and you can call me D.J. There were two other Daniels on my block growing up, so I was called by my initials.”

  Natty smiled, his white teeth shining in contrast to his dark face. “Okay, as your friend, I will call you D.J. See you tomorrow.”

  PART THREE

  “Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,

  for his compassions never fail.

  They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.

  I say to myself, ‘The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.’

  The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him, to the one who seeks him.”

  Lamentations 3:22–25 NIV

  Twenty-Eight

  MOTHERS WITH WINGS: HANDS THAT ROCK

  THE CRADLE NOW WIELD WAF CONTROL STICKS

  An Eastern Army Air Base—Now eight American boys and girls can brag: “My mama flies Army planes, too. She’s ferrying PT-19-As and L4-Bs.”

  I just spent a day at a ferrying division of the Air Transport Command to watch these first feminine ferry fliers fit their civilian flight experience into the precision of the Army air program.

  Although only experienced pilots, with at least 50 hours in the air in the past year and at least 500 altogether, can be considered for ferrying, about 40 letters come to Washington daily from women who want to learn how to fly.

  Margaret Kernodle

  Excerpt from the Washington Post, October 17, 1942

  After yesterday’s confrontation with Ginger, Libby was glad to get back to work. It was too bad “work” meant sitting around. She flipped through the pages of a flight manual as she waited in the ready room for her next lesson. With a limited number of instructors, the women spent more time waiting for lessons than actually flying.

  Betty poked her head into the room. “Libby, you’re wanted at the main office. Someone from the government, and a lady who says she’s a relative.”

  Libby rose and placed the manual on the table. “That’s odd. I don’t know of any relatives from the East Coast.” Her stomach churned as one face came to mind. No, it’s been too long. It can’t be.

  Annabelle stood and stretched. She finished off her coffee and set her ceramic mug to the side. “Most likely an adoring fan trying to meet you. I’m finished for today; mind some company?”

  “Love some.”

  The trees in the distance displayed autumn leaves as the two women strode across the tarmac. A yellow convertible sat parked in front of the office. Libby glanced at the driver—a gray-haired man with a handlebar mustache. He smiled at her—a bit too friendly—and Libby looked away. Guys like that gave her the creeps.

  The secretary waited at the door. “A representative from the War Department is in the office to the right.” She gave a sly smile. “And your other guest stepped into the restroom. When she’s finished, should I tell her to wait?”

  “Uh, sure.” Libby turned to Annabelle and shrugged. Then she tugged her friend’s arm. “Come on; you’re sticking with me until we get to the bottom of this.”

  Libby entered the office, where a young gentleman in a navy blue business suit waited. He jumped to his feet as she entered. “Miss Conners, it’s an honor to meet you. I’m Darnell Dennis with the State Department.”


  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Dennis. And this is my friend Annabelle Hopkins. I hope it’s okay for her to join us today.”

  “Sure thing. Annabelle, pull up a chair. I’m sure you’re mighty proud of your friend here.”

  Annabelle sat down and crossed her legs demurely. “Yes, of course.”

  Darnell tilted his hat back from his forehead. “I’m here, Miss Conners, because I have a proposition for you. I’m sure you’re aware that the War Department has recruited talent from all over the United States to help us sell war bonds. We’ve signed up folks like James Cagney, Lucille Ball, and Bing Crosby to help. Would you be interested in joining our ranks?”

  “Me?” Libby placed a hand to her chest. “I hardly think I’m anyone special. I mean, me and Mr. Cagney? We’re not exactly in the same league.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” Mr. Dennis leaned closer. “Lady fliers are all the buzz around the capital.”

  “In that case, I’d love to help … as long as you’re interested in all the lady fliers.” Libby placed a hand on her friend’s back. “Take Annabelle here. Her husband’s a pilot stationed in England, and she has two young children at home. I think that makes her more of a hero than I am. I mean, all I did was run away from the Japs as they attacked.”

  “Sure thing then—good idea.” Darnell Dennis rose from his seat. “We’ll get some photographers out here right away.”

  Libby stood and walked him to the door. “After you get Mrs. Love’s approval, of course. Last I heard she was getting pretty tired of all the media fuss—feels it’s taking too much time away from our flying.”

  He bowed and donned his hat. “Yes, of course. I’ll check with Mrs. Love.”

  Darnell Dennis gave them each a strong handshake and strode away.

  The two women followed him out into the main office, where a row of windows faced the small parking lot and the airfield beyond.