Dawn of a Thousand Nights

by Tricia N. Goyer

  Sam nodded, then waited as she walked to the door. Libby turned and waved, and only when she crossed the threshold did he climb back into the jeep and drive away.

  Libby sighed, then dropped her bags and kicked them down the lime green hall. I like him.

  She opened the door to her room, and the heat hit her full in the face. She left the door open and hoisted open one window. On her bed she noticed a newspaper clipping about July’s accident.

  At first Libby felt horrible for letting the tragedy slip her mind, but as she unpacked and prepared her wash for the next day, she realized it had been refreshing to have a conversation with a new friend. Libby glanced at the photo of Dan, smiling from the wall. What would he think if he knew I’d spent the afternoon with a handsome mechanic?

  She sniffed her blouse and put it in the “to be washed” pile. Still, it wasn’t as if I planned it. It was only a simple ride.

  “Oh, no. It was anything but simple,” Libby told herself as she glanced into the mirror and ran a brush through her thick, dark hair. Nothing had happened except small talk, but Libby knew it was not a good idea. She’d been lonely without Dan.

  I won’t be seeing any more of Sam Struthers. And that’s a good thing.

  Being one of the original pilots, Libby was thankful for her “in” with Nancy Love, especially when the lead WAF chose Long Beach for Rose’s training in the big bombers, making her and Libby roomies once more.

  Their barracks room was similar to the one in New Castle, except now their biggest problem was the heat, instead of the snow drifting through the cracks. Tonight was no exception. Warm air blew in from the open window, and as Libby lounged in her underwear, she challenged herself to guess the make and model of the roaring engines of the planes taking off and landing.

  Down the hall a radio played “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree,” and Libby tuned out the words. It was only coffee, she thought as she studied the newest flight manual.

  When Rose came in that evening, the two friends wordlessly embraced.

  “How did you hear about July?” Rose asked, and Libby told her of the mechanic’s careless comment.

  “Oh, Libby. It was so horrible being there when it happened. Did you know that since we aren’t ‘officially’ considered military, they wouldn’t even pay for the transport of … of her body back?” Rose’s voice trembled. “So we pitched in. All the WAFs that were there. Betty even volunteered to ride back with the coffin, just to make sure it got safely home to July’s parents.”

  Libby focused on Rose’s words. “Do we know how it happened?”

  “They said July got too close to a plane with a male pilot and accidentally clipped his wing, sending her plane spiraling to the ground, but I’ve seen that type of carelessness before. Those guys fly too close. They play around with those planes, trying to spook us.” Rose took a deep breath. “Sometimes I wonder why I came at all. Maybe I should’ve just stayed in Hawaii.”

  “I know what you mean. But at least we’re getting a chance. We may get all the wrong type of attention, but we get to fly these planes.”

  Rose didn’t respond but instead lay down on her bed and opened a magazine.

  Lord, help me to remember all things are in Your hands … even the hard, painful things.

  Especially the hard, painful things.

  She wanted to share her growing faith with Rose. Share the hope she found even in the midst of all the hard stuff. But the words didn’t come. Instead, Libby retrieved her Bible from her dresser, praying Rose would ask.

  Libby opened to the Psalms and quietly read verses that she’d found a few days earlier. Remember the word unto thy servant, upon which thou hast caused me to hope. This is my comfort in my affliction: for thy word hath quickened me. Psalm 119:49–50.

  But Rose didn’t ask, and Libby finally put the Bible away. Before she went to sleep, she prayed one final prayer.

  Help me to be strong. And use my weakness to learn to trust You more. Give me the right words for the right time, and give me hope that things will turn out okay.

  No matter what new challenges the morning brings.

  Thirty-Four

  JAPS REPORT PRISONERS’

  TREATMENT: THEY’RE FED RICE

  The Berlin radio asserted yesterday that Vatican authorities have received Japanese assurances that Japan’s war prisoners are receiving “satisfactory” treatment but also having been told that “the way of living by the Japanese people differs so greatly from that of western Europeans and this fact must be taken into consideration in judging the problem of the treatment of war prisoners in Japan.”

  Associated Press

  Excerpt from the Washington Post, May 8, 1943

  Libby was thankful for the day off as she lay around on the creaky, iron-framed bed, wanting more than anything to spend the rest of the day on top of its covers. She’d found a picture of herself with July and Annabelle early in training and pinned it onto the wall next to Dan’s photo. She thought about her prayer for strength the night before. And after the mail arrived with a letter from Dan’s mom, she needed it more than ever.

  Dear Libby,

  First, thank you for letting me know that you’ve been reassigned to Long Beach. It’s wonderful to know that you’re so close. Please try to get up to see us as soon as you can. Or maybe we can meet in the middle for dinner.

  Also, I wanted to send this letter from the War Department. It arrived last night, and although I’ve lived with not knowing Dan’s whereabouts for so long, it was difficult for me to see these words on paper. I wanted more than anything to hear that Dan was alive and doing well. I’m praying for you, knowing that you will face the same pain. And I know we’ll both be keeping Dan in our prayers, especially on his upcoming birthday.

  In the Lord’s hands,

  Ima Jean Lukens

  Libby unfolded the letter and took a deep breath. A news clipping also fell out of the envelope, and she pushed it to the side. A lump already formed in her throat, and she hadn’t even read the first word.

  May 7, 1943

  The records of the War Department show your son, Daniel J. Lukens, as missing in action in the Philippine Islands since May 7, 1942, presumed either dead or a prisoner of the Japanese.

  I deeply regret that it is impossible for me to give you more information than is contained in this letter. In the last days before the surrender of Bataan there were casualties that were not reported to the War Department. All available information concerning your son has been carefully considered, and under the provision of Public Law 490, 77th Congress, as amended, an official determination has been made concerning him on the records of the War Department in a missing status. The law cited provides that pay and allowances are to be credited to the missing person’s account and payment of allotments to authorized allottees are to be continued during the absence of such person in a missing status.

  It is to be hoped that the Japanese government will communicate a list of prisoners of war at an early date. At that time you will be notified by this office in the event his name is contained in the list of prisoners of war. In the case of persons known to have been present in the Philippines and who are not reported to be prisoners of war by the Japanese government, the War Department will continue to carry them as “missing in action,” in the absence of information to the contrary, until twelve months have expired. At the expiration of twelve months and in the absence of other information, the War Department is authorized to make a final determination.

  I fully appreciate your concern and deep interest. You will, without further request on your part, receive immediate notification of any change in your son’s status. I regret that the far-flung operations of the present war, the ebb and flow of combat over great distances in isolated areas, and the characteristics of our enemies impose upon some of us the heavy burden of uncertainty with respect to the safety of our loved ones.

  Very truly yours,

  J. A. Ulio

  Major General


  Libby wiped a tear and opened the newspaper clipping. It was from the Washington Post, dated April 22, and was headed “Doolittle Raid.”

  Just last month President Roosevelt had announced over the radio the execution of members of the flight crews who’d been the first to bomb Japan, now referred to as the Doolittle Raiders. But what did an article about these raiders have to do with Dan?

  Why the American people have to wait for anniversaries in order to be told the full facts about certain episodes in this war is known only to the White House. The habit started with Pearl Harbor. Not till the first anniversary of that disaster, or long after the damage had been repaired, were the American people taken into the Government’s confidence. The full story of what happened to the airplanes in the Philippines is still withheld in the official bosom. But the marvelous tale of the Doolittle Raid on April 18, 1942, is vouchsafed exactly a year after it happened….

  Libby stopped reading, her mind focusing on the sentence Ima Jean had underlined. Then her eyes moved to Ima Jean’s handwriting on the margin.

  Just what did happen in the Philippines? Lord, protect my son. Psalm 91:1.

  A chill swept up Libby’s back as she noted the Scripture reference. It was the same one Annabelle had sent her.

  Libby pulled out the slip of paper from where she’d tucked it between the pages of her Bible and read the words once more. He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

  Then she hurried to her dresser to find a piece of paper and pen, knowing that she had to tell Ima Jean that God had led them both to the same Scripture.

  Lord, surely it’s a sign that Dan is in Your hands. Surely it’s a sign he’s not dead.

  And somewhere deep inside, the glimmer of hope brightened.

  Despite the miles that separated them, Dan knew his parents’ thoughts were with him even more than usual today. Happy Birthday. Since he didn’t smoke, he bribed a guard with one of the rationed cigarettes he’d swapped for an extra portion of rice.

  He scooped the rice ball into his hand, ignoring the grains that wriggled in his fingers—maggots camouflaged in the rice. Protein, he convinced himself. Should consider it a blessing.

  He placed the rice ball on his lap, remembering the way his mother always mixed the ingredients for his cake slowly. He wanted to tell her to hurry, to work faster, even though he knew he wouldn’t get a piece till after supper—after the song harmonized by a dozen voices, mostly off-key. He closed his eyes and lifted the rice ball to his mouth. The refrain of “Happy Birthday” floated through his thoughts.

  Dan bit into the rice ball and, for an instant, was certain he tasted the fluffy softness of sweet chocolate cake.

  It had been one month since he’d been transferred from Camp 17 to the Tokyo Main Camp, traveling by train with blackout windows for most of the trip. He was then driven by jeep across a narrow wooden bridge to an artificial island on Tokyo Bay. The whole manmade island, now a miniature fortress, appeared to be no more than 250 feet long and 200 feet wide. A tall bamboo fence with barbed wire strung along the top enclosed the perimeter. The prisoners’ barracks sat in the middle of the island surrounded by the administration buildings, the soldiers’ quarters, and antiaircraft guns.

  Dan had plenty of time to study this view over the days and weeks. He was confined alone in one of three small rooms in a far corner. Even though he could hear the voices that carried across the island, his only actual contact with another person was the taps of Morse code that came from a man on an adjoining wall, also in solitary confinement.

  From his small, square window, Dan peeked out at the bright sunlight curving over the horizon, sending a thermal ripple of light over the wooden buildings where the other American soldiers were housed. It was from here he watched the prisoners in work crews, wishing he were one of them.

  With shouts and the pounding of their canes against the walls, guards awakened the workers. A few minutes later, he watched as the GIs were led to the dusty courtyard where guards used large wooden ladles to scoop their morning rice into bowls. Then the prisoners circled in small groups, hungrily devouring their meal.

  Dan’s eyes were drawn to one man as he tucked his hand into his shirt, drawing it out and pushing something into his mouth. Once, when the men were loading a truck just outside the solitary confinement cells, he had heard them speak of their work unloading supplies from the docks and railway cars around Tokyo. They no doubt stole extra food in an effort to remain alive one more day, just as he, Gabe, and Tony had done so many months ago in Manila.

  Guards paced amongst the prisoners, wearing their familiar caps, khaki green uniforms with baggy pants, belted coats, and wooden-handled swords that hung from their waists.

  From behind the barred window, Dan gasped as one guard approached the lone prisoner. The GI glanced up, a handful of smuggled bread nearly to his mouth when he spotted the guard. The man’s fingers dropped the food, and he winced and covered his head in anticipation of the blow to come.

  Raising the stick, the guard brought it down upon the man’s skull with a horrible whack that echoed across the island. The man flopped forward, and Dan forced himself to look away. Still, he could hear the dull thuds of the stick hitting the man’s body, until there was only silence.

  Next Dan heard the loading of prisoners and the rumble of trucks as they were driven to their work details.

  Dan slumped to the dirt floor. His chest ached, and he remembered the ache of being driven away, not knowing if the friend he’d left behind was dead or alive. He wondered if the man’s body still lay beside the barracks. But he refused to look, remembering …

  Forcing Gabe’s face out of his mind, Dan tidied his tatami mat, paper blankets, and straw pillow. The morning was warm, so he removed his outer jacket—his most cherished possession. He thought about the brave Englishman who had stripped it from an American who’d succumbed to illness, then smuggled it over to Dan’s prison cage.

  “Keep your head up, ol’ chap. I heard U.S. bombers in the distance last night. Surely this bloody madness will end soon.”

  The few sentences could barely be considered intimate conversation, yet it was enough for that one night. Hearing others’ stories—sharing his own thoughts—that was what Dan missed most. How he longed for the days when he and Gabe would talk late into the night. He even looked back with fond memories at the darkest places they’d been, remembering the thoughts they’d shared.

  Gabe. It was useless trying to ignore the scene that never left the forefront of Dan’s thoughts. And this morning, he let the events of his last day in the coal mine replay.

  After the attack. After being taken to the mine entrance. After being thrown at Natsuo’s feet … he’d been dragged to an office in the main building. Two guards held his arms as he faced his old friend.

  “Don’t speak, Mr. Lukens.” Natsuo’s gaze bore into Dan’s eyes. “It is a dishonor to say a word unless I give you permission.” Natsuo fumbled with some papers on his desk, then cleared his throat. “You are a flier. The American newspapers also report that you were a hero, shooting down many enemy planes. Fliers are not considered prisoners of the imperial army, but rather criminals. Many who have been captured have already been put to death.”

  Natsuo’s fingers trembled as he turned to the next page. “Now you have attacked an imperial workman in the mines.”

  “I was defending a friend—” Dan reached a hand toward Natsuo. “Surely you can understand that.”

  Natsuo dropped the papers, his fists pounding the desk. His eyes met Dan’s. “These marks on your record are enough for you to be put to death. Don’t you understand? Instead, you will be taken to Tokyo Main Prison and held there in solitary confinement!” He leaned across the desk, and for the briefest second Dan saw the Natty he knew. Natsuo’s voice lowered. “My decision is merciful.”

  That was the last time Dan saw him.

  “Merciful?” he mumbled now. “Being lo
cked away, alone? Not knowing if Gabe or the others lived or died?”

  Dan leaned his head against the wall and studied two names carved there. Jonathan Winthrop. Bruce Evans. Names of other men who had lived in this hole—no more than four feet by four feet—yet had not found their freedom. Under the others, Dan had used his pocketknife that he had somehow managed to keep hidden to carve his own name. D.J. Lukens.

  Dan closed his eyes. How could he make it one more day?

  Thirty-Five

  WOMEN TAKE BOMBER ON WAY

  TO FRONT LINE: FLIGHT OF TWO WAFS

  FROM WEST COAST SETS A MARK

  Cincinnati, June 26 (AP)—A B-25 medium bomber, racing in from the West on June 23, circled a Midwestern airport, nosed into the wind, and landed, writing another chapter in the history of women in aviation, according to an announcement tonight by the Army Air Corps ferrying division headquarters here.

  It marked the first time in American military aviation that a woman pilot and co-pilot flew a bombing plane on part of the trip from the factory to the front line.

  Excerpt from the New York Times, June 27, 1943

  Libby and Rose sat on the picnic table in front of their barracks, watching the newest batch of pilot trainees practice their night flying. Although the sun had passed over the ocean, the temperature still stayed at 90 degrees. They sipped warm Cokes from small glass bottles and stirred up the air with fans made from the torn covers of army flight manuals.

  It had taken nearly a month to arrange a day off together. Libby finally got the chance to tell Rose about the letter from Dan’s mom, the news clipping, and the Scriptures Annabelle had written out for her.

  “Don’t you see?” Libby slipped off the yellow-and-blue scarf holding back her hair and patted the perspiration that dripped down her neck. “I think this is from God. It’s His way of telling me He’s taking care of Dan, watching over him.”