by Dean Hughes
Wally tried to let his mind focus on his parents, and then his siblings, one after another. He tried to hold them each next to him for a moment. He had sometimes resented Alex, his older brother, but he felt none of that now. And he longed to see Bobbi, his older sister, who was in nursing school in Salt Lake. He had always been able to talk to her more openly than anyone else in the family. Gene and LaRue and Beverly were younger than he was. He wondered what they were like now, how much they might have changed since he had left home almost two years earlier. He promised himself that somehow he would see them again.
What he was experiencing seemed unreal; his home was his reality: his parents, his brothers and sisters—and now, even the Church. He thought of Sunday evening Sacrament meetings in the summer, everyone fanning themselves in the heat, and a speaker going on and on. It was almost funny now to take joy in the idea of being there again, to experience all that. He had hated long meetings more than anything, and now they would be such a pleasure to him.
Wally told himself he could, and he would, possess all that again; he would not give up. He would keep walking, and he would trust that food would come, sooner or later, and he would survive on whatever he got for however long he had to. But he would make it, and then he would be part of everything he had once been so willing to throw aside.
Wally also thought of Lorraine Gardner. She had been his girlfriend, but she had broken up with him out of disappointment over his directionless life. He didn’t expect a chance to marry her, but he still pictured her—her prettiness, her loveliness—and she symbolized the other thing he wanted: a family of his own someday.
And so, all morning, Wally forced his mind away from the pain and the weariness, and he kept finding the energy to focus on the reasons he wanted to live. And he prayed. He no longer asked the Lord to relieve his pain, to take away all this agony; he asked only for strength to hold up under whatever else might lie ahead. And he asked continually.
“I’m in trouble,” Jack said.
“Don’t say that,” Wally told him.
Warren, on the other side of Jack, said, “We’ll get some sugar cane as soon as we can.”
The men had been walking past plenty of cane, but the guards had stayed close since the incident at the well that morning. Normally, these guards disappeared at times. Wally believed they left the road to eat, not wanting the prisoners to see them. He was certain another chance would come if he and his friends were patient. He just hoped Jack could hold out.
Then something unexpected happened. The prisoners were approaching a baihai—a thatched house, on stilts. An elderly Filipino farmer came out from a shed behind the house, looked both ways, and then hurried to the men. He was carrying a basket. The men nearby suddenly rushed toward him, and the farmer began to hand something out—vegetables, Wally thought. Wally instinctively hurried ahead, but the surge of men was all around him, and he felt a sudden panic that the farmer’s basket couldn’t possibly hold enough for all of them. Something in him said that he had to beat the others to that basket—and something else said that if the men started fighting each other for the food, all was lost for them.
And so he didn’t push forward, and then he heard the screams of a guard. The prisoners fell quickly back into their four-abreast lines, and the farmer hurried away, but the guard ran up the road, stopped, aimed his rifle, and fired. The poor old man had scurried past his house, but a bullet struck him in the back. He dropped on his face and didn’t move.
The guard turned and began to shout at the prisoners, pointing his rifle. But the men had eaten what they had—or had hidden it—and he didn’t shoot at anyone.
“What’s wrong with these stinking Japs?” Jack said. But the effort to say that much had cost him. He began to cry.
“Don’t think about it, Jack,” Wally said. “We’re going to get through the day. Let’s just think about that.”
But the day kept dragging on, and the guards stayed close. The men passed a couple of streams, but there was no chance to get to them. That was hard enough for Wally to take, and he had had one drink that day, but Jack was suffering, turning inward, breathing hard. Wally knew the signs. Almost always the men who went down started by voicing their discouragement, letting their emotions take over.
Wally’s feet hurt, his body ached. Early in the march he had thrown away his heavy steel helmet, which had served only to bake his brains, it seemed, but now he wished for some protection against the searing sun.
“We’re going to get home, Jack,” Wally said. “We’re not going to let these Japs beat us.”
Wally knew it wasn’t Christian to feel such hatred, but the anger helped him. At times he told himself he shouldn’t pray just for himself and his buddies but also for these misguided guards. But he couldn’t get himself to do it.
Jack didn’t respond. In fact, a moment later he stumbled, and if Wally and Warren hadn’t grabbed him, he might have gone down. After that, they kept hold of his arms and the three plodded on together.
When the sun was high in the sky, past midday, finally the guards ordered the prisoners into a plowed field, crowded them close together in a standing position, and then signaled for them to sit down. It was so cruel to pack the men in so close. Wally supposed it was to keep a tight perimeter for the guards to cover, but it was just one more act of ruthlessness that was hard to accept. A few times Wally had thought of his friend Mat Nakashima, back in Sugar House, and he had tried to remember the things Mat had said about the Japanese. But all that had nothing to do with these men—whatever nationality they were. They were simply vicious, for whatever reason, and Wally could think of no reason to forgive them.
The prisoners dropped to the ground, relieved to be off their feet, but they were on a plot of dirt with no protection from the sun. Wally glanced about and saw the despair in the men’s eyes. He knew that many of them would not get up in the morning. He saw that the guards were allowing some to walk to the edge of the field, drop their trousers, and squat. He knew these men had dysentery, and they had no chance of living much longer.
And then he watched as across the field several guards walked into the crowd and hoisted four men to their feet. The men were marched to the top of the field, not far from the circle of prisoners. There, the guards handed them shovels and demanded that they dig. Wally assumed that the Japanese had decided to prepare a place to bury the prisoners who would die that night, but he wasn’t sure why they were bothering to do that—so many had already been left along the road.
All afternoon the men continued to dig. Wally watched them from time to time. They were struggling just to stand, and when they tossed the dirt, it threw them off balance. Wally knew this was a death sentence. The extra work would be the end of these four—chosen for no reason that Wally could guess. But in time the prisoners were hip deep in the hole, and that seemed to satisfy the guards. They shouted commands, in Japanese, and took the shovels away. Then one of the guards shouted loudly toward the rest of the prisoners. Many were curled up, lying on their sides, asleep, and at first they didn’t respond. But one guard kept shouting until everyone was roused and looking. No one had any idea what he was saying. A few of the guards spoke a little English, but the man who was shouting trusted only in the harsh sound of his voice to communicate his anger.
Once all the prisoners were looking his way, he turned back toward the men in the hole, and he said something to them—something they would never understand. And then the guard gave a command, and the other Japanese all raised their rifles. Wally realized only a second ahead of time what was going to happen. He shut his eyes and heard the report of the rifles, and then he opened his eyes to see the four men gone, fallen into the hole, one of them hanging over the edge. A guard pushed that man with his foot, and then he turned and waved for some nearby prisoners to come forward and backfill the grave.
Wally had not known any of the men who had been shot. They were all army soldiers, not air corps. But he remembered that look on their fac
es, the wide-eyed realization just before the gunfire. And now they were just four more who were gone.
“Why?” Jack asked.
“Maybe they took some of that food from the farmer,” Warren said, but it was such a terrible reason—if it was a reason at all.
Wally saw in Jack’s eyes that he was losing control, his anger spilling over.
“It’s okay,” Wally said. “We won’t let them lick us. Some of us have to make it.”
Jack took three or four long breaths and stared straight ahead. Wally knew he was trying to make a decision.
“Think of your family,” Wally said.
For a moment Jack focused directly on Wally, his eyes full of questions, but he said nothing, and he sat still for quite some time before he said, “I’m starving to death.”
“I know. We’ll get something tomorrow.”
Again Jack looked at him, and he could have said, “That’s what you said this morning,” but he didn’t.
An hour passed. Wally and Warren tried to create a little room for Jack, and they told him to lie down and sleep. He rolled onto his side, his legs stretched out between his friends, and he was soon breathing steadily. Wally just hoped he would wake up when the Japanese pushed them ahead again.
Wally was in something of a stupor, half asleep himself, when he sensed that something was going on. He watched as he saw, and then heard, some rumor spreading through the men. He heard the word “turnip.”
“Someone dug up a turnip,” a man was saying.
And by now, all across the field, everyone was in motion, digging at the ground, using cups or mess kits or anything they had. Some distance away, Wally heard another man say, “I got one.” Wally and Warren began to dig with their hands. Jack roused as he felt the motion around him. “Turnips,” Wally said to him, and Jack sat up.
Wally looked toward the guards. They had seen what was happening, but they didn’t seem to care, and so Wally grabbed for his mess kit cup, ducked his head, and dug hard again. He drove it into the dirt that had been plowed but had hardened under the scorching sun. He felt a terrible sort of anxiety, the fear that there were only so many turnips and he might not get one of them. He almost hated the men near him who whispered that they had found one.
It was Warren who finally dug one up—and a good-sized one. He clawed at it and then used Wally’s cup to dig around it and pry it out of the ground. Wally watched and waited, and so did Jack as Warren scraped the dirt off. “Take a bite and pass it around,” Warren said to Jack, and the three of them understood. The turnip was theirs to share.
Jack took a bite. He let his eyes go shut as he savored the taste in his mouth, sucked at the juice. He handed it to Wally, nodding, saying nothing. Wally took a bite and was almost shocked by the intensity of the flavor. The turnip was fairly dry, not full of the juices he wanted, but he chewed very slowly, getting all the taste and moisture he could from it. He handed it on to Warren.
No one had taken a big bite—out of respect for the others—but Wally also knew he wanted more than one helping, more than one moment of pleasure. He had the notion that strength was already pumping into him from the little bit of nourishment.
The turnip went around three times and could have gone again, but the guys next to Warren had found nothing. He looked at Jack and Wally, said nothing, but both nodded, and so Warren turned and offered the remains of the turnip to the two men behind him.
Wally felt something in his throat that was like crying. He was glad to have had the pleasure of this bit of food, glad to see Jack looking a little better, but he was even more touched by the men who had found nothing and had almost despaired until Warren had offered them what was left. And all around the field, Wally could see the same thing happening. Almost everyone was getting at least one bite. And when new turnips showed up, they were sometimes being passed through the hands of starving men to the hands of others who had, as yet, had no chance to share in the joy.
“You’ll make it now,” Wally told Jack. “Maybe we’re only going as far as San Fernando. That can’t be too much farther.”
“That’s what you said about Balanga.”
“I know. But we have to stop somewhere.”
“We’ll get some sugar cane tomorrow,” Warren said. “And some water. We just had bad luck today.”
Jack nodded, and he did seem a little encouraged.
As the sun sank low over the hills, Wally tried to curl up and sleep. As usual, his sleep was fitful and unsatisfying, but it was still the best time of day, when the ache disappeared for a time. Deep in the night, however, he awoke suddenly with a stabbing cramp in his stomach. He realized that he needed to get to the side of the field quickly or he would fill his pants. He also knew, instantly, that this could be the beginning of the end for him. If he had dysentery, he would have little hope of surviving.
He pulled himself to his feet, and in the dark he tried to work his way over the bodies. Men moaned and complained as he stumbled over them, and from behind him, Warren whispered, “Wally, what’s wrong?”
“Sick,” was all he said, and then he continued to struggle over the men until he reached the edge of the packed-in bodies. A guard grunted a challenge, and Wally said, “Benjo,” the Japanese word for latrine.
He relieved himself and then walked back to the men. He wanted desperately to find his way to his friends, but he knew he shouldn’t do that now. He still felt sick, and he knew he might have to go again. He couldn’t bother all these men to cross over them time and again.
And so he lay down on the edge of the group. At least there he could stretch out a little. But the uproar in his insides was not abating. Dysentery could dehydrate him quickly and sap away his remaining strength. It didn’t take long until men who got the disease were passing blood. Without water to drink, and something to eat, he would be gone in a day or two.
All Wally’s confidence was suddenly gone. He prayed, but he wondered whether he would have the strength to keep pushing. He remembered the day on the East High School track when he had wanted to push to the end of the race. His body had given up to the pain in spite of his resolve. He told himself he couldn’t let that happen again. This time his life was on the line. But he wondered whether he would have any choice, whether the strength was in him.
Chapter 2
Wally was still sick when the guards shouted for the prisoners to rise and start their day’s march. But he’d only had to relieve himself that one time. Maybe he didn’t have dysentery. Maybe his stomach had merely reacted to the turnip—something so strong coming into his system after getting no food for so long. But when Wally stood, he felt dizzy. All sorts of diseases were rampant among the men. Most everyone had contracted malaria during those last months of battle when medicine had been in short supply. At least Wally had some quinine tablets that a doctor had given him. He kept them hidden in a little tin in the top of his boot. He thought of taking a tablet now, but he decided to wait until he had a better idea what was wrong with him.
He waited for the men to move out, and then he worked his way into the crowd and said, “Warren. Jack.”
This brought an immediate shout from a guard, who didn’t want any talking. But in a moment he heard, “Over here,” and Wally worked his way toward the voice.
When he got to his friends, Warren asked, “How are you doing?”
“I’m still sick,” Wally said. “But not real bad. Maybe it’s not dysentery.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” Jack said. “Guys with dysentery know it. It comes on fast.”
Wally could tell that Jack was trying to be the strong one today. That was good.
Some things went better that day. Virtually all of the men were able to get a good drink of water in the morning, and then again later in the day. And Warren made a dash to a field of sugar cane, where he brought back stocks for Jack and Wally and himself to chew on. The sugar sent a shock of power through Wally’s body, which was wonderful, but soon after, he felt the dizziness again. H
e also knew not to chew on the cane too long, since the fibers had a way of wearing his mouth raw.
Up until noon or so, Wally held up pretty well. He felt the weakness, the pain in his stomach, but he kept trudging along—and at least he didn’t feel any urgency in his bowels. But the final hour or two of the march were agonizing for him. Every step was a tremendous effort. His friends gave him support, but they were worn out too, and the three stumbled over each other at times, almost bringing each other down.
Wally knew this was his test, and the worst part of it was to have no finish line—not to know how much longer he had to hold out. He kept telling himself he could keep going a little longer and then he would be allowed to rest, even if it was out in the hot sun. But gradually, the sickness was coming on stronger, his stomach cramping and his head pounding.
He was moving along in a haze of dust and lethargy, leaning on his friends more than he wanted to but still pushing his feet forward, when suddenly he realized that he was falling forward. Jack and Warren were clinging to him, but he was slipping from their grasps, and then he was in the dirt, on his chest.
A strange peace came over him. “At least it’s over,” he thought, and he let the dark begin to take him.
But someone was pulling at his shoulder and shouting in his ear. “Remember what you told me? Think about your family.”
Wally fought to understand the words. He wanted the pain to end, but he knew the words had meant something yesterday, when he had spoken them himself, and he struggled to grab onto them. His friends were pulling him up, and he worked to get his feet under himself. Then he pushed with all his strength. He couldn’t see, couldn’t even tell whether his legs were working right, but he began to make the motion again—stepping, stepping.
The next thing he knew he was in a field somewhere, and he knew he had been asleep for hours. Dark was coming on. He looked up at his friends, who were sitting near him, staring down at him. “You guys got me here,” he said.
