by Dean Hughes
One day a Filipino woman gave Wally a bottle of ketchup, and Wally managed to smuggle it back into camp by slipping it inside his coveralls, under his arm. The guards who took the men into the village didn’t seem to care whether the prisoners got hold of food or cigarettes while outside, but the guards at the gate took delight in confiscating the booty and then beating the men who were caught with the stuff. What Wally learned was that he had to watch his chances at the gate. When he could see that he would be searched, he would sneak to the fence and sell his take to Filipino prisoners. The Filipinos had plenty of money, smuggled to them by locals. The money was easy to hide, and it could be used to purchase food on the next work assignment. Wally would split his take of money with his friends, and between the three of them, they would watch for new opportunities to buy chocolate or anything else available. On one occasion Warren managed to get hold of several bottles of ketchup and some canned meat—and he got them past the guards. By then he had designed a little bag that he draped under his arm and kept inside his coveralls. For days after, Jack and Warren and Wally ate rice with meat, flavored with the ketchup, and they felt like kings.
All this, however, was taking a great chance. Anyone caught was beaten unmercifully. Sometimes the guards would break a man’s arm, on purpose, which was a death sentence. Without means to heal such an injury, and with inadequate nourishment, a broken bone would soon take a man’s life.
The worst duty was the burial detail. Once men became seriously ill they were taken to a so-called hospital. It was actually a filthy, foul-smelling, fly-infested building where men were merely allowed to die. There were no mops to clean up the blood-filled vomit and feces, no way to disinfect the floors the men lay on. The men called it “St. Peter’s Ward.” No medicine, no care was given. Men simply dwindled and died on the wooden floor with no sort of comfort for their final hours. The guards saw no reason to waste food on dying men, and so those with any hope of surviving died of starvation. Every morning the bodies had to be carried out by men who feared to touch the diseased bodies. The corpses were usually covered with sores and ulcers, sometimes with maggots and blowflies clinging to the decay. The men carried the bodies in blankets outside the compound to graves that had been dug the day before. If the graves were not adequate, the bodies were left on the ground. New graves were begun each day. Hundreds of men died in the first few weeks at O’Donnell—one of every six.
Wally tried to keep clean, but the trickle of water was not adequate to allow for much of a bath. He’d managed to buy a “shelter-half”—half of a pup tent—and he used that to protect him and his friends from rain blowing in under the building where they slept, but the rainy season was coming on, and he knew conditions would not be good. His coveralls were holding together so far, and his boots were not too bad, but his socks had worn out. He managed to buy a tattered khaki-
colored hat that protected his head from the sun. He also had his cup, half of a mess kit, and a spoon. And he had his quinine pills, which he was likely to need.
Gradually, as weeks went by, the guards began to provide less rice each day, and the eggplant almost disappeared. That made scrounging even more important, and men began to take bigger chances. One morning Wally was assigned to guard duty. It wasn’t a bad assignment since no one really tried to escape, but just as Wally was about to leave his sleeping area to take up his duty, an officer came by and said, “Hicks, Norland, you two have the rice detail today.”
Wally spun around. “Could I go too?” he asked. “I have guard duty, but anyone can do that—even the sick guys.”
“No. We’ve got the detail filled. I just need these two.”
Wally didn’t know why this bothered him so much. Part of it was that he liked to have the chance to scrounge, but he also felt strange when he was separated from Jack and Warren. Still, he knew it was silly to care whether they were separated for a day. As the officer walked away, Wally told his friends, “Come back with something good, okay? We need a good meal.”
Jack laughed. “I’ll try to buy a side of beef. There’s room for it in my coveralls.”
It was almost true. Jack—all the men—had lost a tremendous amount of weight. Wally could see all his ribs when he took off his coveralls. When he looked down at his legs, he was reminded of a flamingo. “I’d settle for a can of fish,” Wally said.
“We’ll see what we can do,” Warren said, and the two walked away.
At about noon an officer walked up to Wally. “Son,” he said, “there’s a long-term work detail, and the Japs are asking for everyone who can do hard work. Go to the gate and report. They’ll haul you out of here in trucks.”
“What do you mean ‘long-term’?” Wally asked.
“I don’t know. You know how they are. They won’t tell us anything. We told them that all the healthy guys are out working, but they want three hundred men, and they want them now. A lot of sick guys are going to have to go, and I hate to think what will happen to them.”
“Hey, listen, isn’t there some way out of this? My two buddies are out on detail, and I’m—”
“Hey, I know how you feel, but there’s not one thing I can do. We’ve been trying for an hour to talk them out of this.”
“I know, but—”
“Son, go to the gate. Right now. I’m sorry.”
Wally nodded. All the military stuff, saluting and the like, had gotten lost along the way, but this was still an order by an officer, and Wally knew he didn’t have any choice. He could say no to the American, but he wouldn’t be able to say no to the guards. And so he walked to the gate, but he felt as though he were walking off a cliff. Who knew how long he would be gone? Maybe he wouldn’t be brought back here. Maybe . . .
Wally had to fight back the tears. He knew that was stupid, but he didn’t have much to hang onto in this place, and now the one thing he did have was being taken away from him. He wouldn’t even have a chance to tell his friends good-bye.
Chapter 3
Bobbi Thomas, with the rest of her family, sat at the dinner table and listened to Alex’s end of a telephone conversation. When Alex hung up the receiver and walked to the table, President Thomas said, “So what was that fellow telling you?”
For the past year Alex Thomas had been working for his father. He was running a company that produced parts for defense companies, mostly for airplanes, and he had gained lots of contacts in the business. For weeks now, Alex had been trying to use these connections to find out whether his brother Wally was still alive. The man he had just been talking to was with the Boeing Company in Seattle.
“He finally got through to the people who should know something,” Alex said. “But even the big boys in Washington say they have no information—no list of prisoners, no casualty list. The Japanese won’t give them a thing.”
“So we’re right back where we started,” Dad said.
“Pretty much. But he did say one thing that sounded hopeful. The air corps people he talked to said that Wally’s pursuit squadron was down at the tip of the peninsula, away from all the serious fighting. He said chances were almost certain that Wally was taken prisoner.”
“That sounds good,” Sister Thomas said. She was sitting at one end of the long dinner table, her husband at the other. Alex sat down between his two younger sisters, LaRue and Beverly. Gene and Bobbi were sitting on the opposite side.
“It does sound good,” Alex said. “I think you can be almost certain that he was alive when the troops surrendered.”
“I always have been sure of that,” she said.
Alex nodded. He sounded careful, however, when he added, “The only thing is . . .” He hesitated and looked at his mother. “There have been some reports from Filipinos that the prisoners haven’t been treated all that well.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not exactly sure. I’ll try to find out more.”
No one said a word. Bobbi was disturbed, even a little sick at the thought that Wally might be suffering
.
“I don’t think our troops will get back to the Philippines right away,” Alex said, “but at least the tide is already turning in the Pacific. Knocking out those Japanese carriers at Midway went a long way toward evening things up.” He leaned forward and patted his mother’s hand, and his necktie draped onto his empty plate.
“We need to knock out the Japs fast and then go kick Hitler’s pants,” Gene said.
“It’s not going to go that way,” Alex told him. “Churchill has Roosevelt convinced that we have to devote most of our attention to Germany for now. Some people say we’re going to land in Europe this year, but from what I see, I don’t think so. We brag about our war production, but right now—while we’re getting things going—things are really a mess. And Hitler has better weapons, especially tanks. I talk to military men who think the war in Europe could go on for four or five years.”
“Oh, no. I doubt that,” Dad said. “Hitler made a mistake when he invaded Russia. He may have the Russians on the run so far, but I think he’s stretched himself too thin.”
“Maybe,” Alex said. Then he added, quietly, “But don’t look for us to get Wally free for a while—not this year at least.”
This was not a new conversation in the Thomas household, and Bobbi didn’t like to hear it. She didn’t want to think that Wally could be held for a long time. “Have you tried to write to Wally yet?” she asked her mother.
“I’ve sent two letters now,” Sister Thomas said. “I finally got an address I could use—but I have no idea whether the mail is going through. So far, no letters have been coming out of the prison camps.”
It was June, 1942, and Wally had been a prisoner of war since early April. The agony of waiting and wondering had been terrible, and today Bobbi could detect the stress in her mother’s voice. Maybe she sensed, as Bobbi did, that Alex was holding back. He seemed to know more than he was saying.
“We’ve talked enough about this,” Mom said. “Let’s say the blessing, and let’s eat. We need to enjoy each other tonight. We won’t have another chance like this for a long time.”
The grandparents—both the Thomases and the Snows—as well as many of the uncles and aunts and cousins, had come over to say good-bye the night before, but this dinner was for the immediate family. In the morning, Bobbi was leaving. She had graduated from nursing school late in May, and now she had taken a commission in the navy. In another week Alex would also be on his way, heading to Georgia for his army basic training.
Dad said the blessing on the food. As always, he prayed for Wally, but he also thanked the Lord for his children and prayed for Alex and Bobbi’s safety.
“Thanks, Dad,” Bobbi said. She was moved by her dad’s obvious concern for her. He could be stern at times, and too controlling, but she could hear the tightness in his voice now, and she knew he was struggling with the reality that two more of his children were about to leave.
Bobbi would be serving at a navy hospital in Pearl Harbor. Her mom and dad were worried that the Japanese might attack again, but Bobbi didn’t think the hospital would be in any danger. Apparently a lot of nurses were not so sure of that. The navy had been working hard to find enough women who were willing to go there.
Alex had decided to join an airborne unit. The army was seeking top-rated volunteers to begin a new basic training experiment: the recruits would receive jump training along with their boot camp. To Bobbi, Alex hardly seemed the type to get involved with a “crack” outfit, but the recruiter had been especially interested in Alex because he had served a recent mission in Germany. The promise was that Alex could very well end up in an intelligence unit, where he would translate German documents or radio transmissions. Alex saw that as a way to help the cause without shooting anyone. He hated the idea of returning to fight the people he had learned to love during his mission.
Gene scooped some mashed potatoes onto his plate and then passed the bowl to Bobbi. “Did I smell a cake baking?” he asked.
“Well, yes,” Mom said, “but it’s just a small one.”
“How did you get enough sugar?”
Bobbi laughed. Gene was a growing boy and a big eater. He really missed the sweets—all the cookies and cinnamon rolls and cupcakes—that Mom had now stopped baking. Sugar was the only commodity the new Office of Price Administration had restricted so far, but according to the newspapers, many other items would soon be rationed. As of the end of May the production of almost all durable goods had stopped. Any factory that had made sewing machines, kitchen appliances, washers, and the like, was being converted for the building of armaments. And no one was producing automobiles. If Dad hadn’t begun making parts for military use, he would be in big trouble now, with only a few used cars available to sell at his Hudson/Nash dealership.
“I used every bit of sugar I had in the house—and borrowed a little from Grandma,” Mom said. “Don’t expect any on your oatmeal mush the rest of the week.”
“Oh, great!” Gene said. “I’ll take scrambled eggs, please—unless the OPA passes a law against chickens laying their eggs.”
“Quit complaining,” LaRue said with an exaggerated shake of her head. “We all have to sacrifice to win the war.”
Gene rolled his eyes. “You sound like these posters they’re putting up all over the place.”
“Well, the posters are right. Don’t you think Wally would like to have some mush right now—even without sugar?”
Gene, of course, didn’t answer that, and Bobbi was a little surprised at LaRue. She had never been particularly idealistic, but she was obviously taking all the new slogans seriously. That was fine, of course, but Bobbi felt sorry for Gene. No one missed Wally more than Gene did, and right now he was caught in the middle. He was still in high school, too young to fight the war but old enough to feel the pinch of all the things that were being taken away from him. The schools were cutting back on activities—mostly because of gasoline and rubber shortages. Fuel and tires were needed for military vehicles, and the Japanese were now in control of Malaya and the Dutch East Indies, the former source of most American rubber. Gasoline rationing had started on the East Coast and hadn’t been established in Utah so far, but tire sales had come under very tight regulation. People who owned unmounted tires were being required to sell them to the government, and everyone would soon have to have their tires inspected four times a year to prove they hadn’t bought any on the black market. Joy riding was a thing of the past. Tires were going to have to last a long time—perhaps even for the duration.
“For the duration.” It was a phrase that had started popping up even before Pearl Harbor, when everyone first realized that America would have to sacrifice to help England. But now, with the United States in the war, almost every aspect of normal life was on hold until the war came to an end.
“Mom, when are you going to add two more stars to the window?” LaRue asked.
“You obviously haven’t looked. I put them up this morning.”
Bobbi turned and looked at the living room window. The sun was well to the west now, but still, the glow through the south window made the blue stars and the red trim show up against the little white flags they were sewn to. All around Salt Lake City, and across the nation, the banners were showing up now. Each star represented a member of the household who was serving in the military. And already, a few gold stars—for those who had died in action—were beginning to replace some of the blue ones.
The image touched Bobbi. The three blue stars represented the commitment of a whole family, but they also signified three lives that were being separated from the eight they had always been tied to. Bobbi had been fairly excited about getting away and seeing a new part of the world, but here in this afternoon glow of light, she felt as though the sun were going down on everything she had always known.
“You’ll have to add another one next year,” Gene said. “I’m signing up as soon as I graduate.”
“Don’t get so anxious, Gene,” President Thomas said. “It’s n
othing to wish upon yourself.”
“I’m going, either way. I might as well sign up and get into the branch of the service I want. Besides, I want to go. I want to kick the Japs out of the Philippines.”
Bobbi knew that Gene was telling LaRue she could talk all she wanted about pulling together for the country, but in another year he would be putting his life on the line. She had no right to question his patriotism—even if he missed his sugar.
The food continued to move around the table—fried chicken, potatoes and gravy, tossed salad, garden peas, and home-baked rolls. Bobbi looked over at Beverly, who was still just ten. She had always been a serene little girl who loved to play with dolls and live in her own imagination, but she had grown quieter than ever, and Bobbi wondered what kind of worries she was storing up inside.
Beverly had been very attached to Wally before he had left. Now, Alex was heading into that same war, and children were learning quickly that big brothers didn’t necessarily return. Bobbi had always been one to chat with her little sisters, to spend time with them, and she knew they were struggling with the idea of her leaving, too. It didn’t help to hear Dad and Mom fretting about the dangers of Pearl Harbor. Beverly had cried one night and told Bobbi she was afraid everyone in their family was going to get hurt. She hadn’t said “get killed,” probably hadn’t dared to say the words, but Bobbi knew it was what she meant.
