My Father the God

by D. Allen Henry

  Fig. 1 Map of Burma

  Boston – February, 1942

  James handed the sergeant the piece of paper, saying with palpable exasperation, “Here is the document, sergeant. As you can see, my doctor has declared me unfit for active duty.”

  The soldier eyed the piece of paper, saying, “So, a heart murmur, is it? Too bad. You look like you’d have made a strapping good foot soldier.”

  “Exactly as I had hoped but, as you can see, it doesn’t appear that I shall have my wish,” James mumbled disconsolately, “Is there nothing that I might do to help the war effort, sergeant?”

  “I doubt it, at least not in military service. Under the circumstances, you will have to report to the civilian authorities. They will make a determination as to whether there are any civilian activities appropriate for one with your physical condition.”

  “And where might I report for that?” James inquired hopefully.

  “Downtown, the court house, and take this with you. It will explain your medical condition,” and so saying, he handed the doctor’s finding back to James.

  “Thank you,” James responded despondently, “I’ll go right over,” and at this he turned and departed the recruiting office.

  Burma - Early March, 1942

  Sloan drove his vehicle gingerly through the mass of soldiers rushing to and fro within the jungle clearing, halted abruptly and rushed into the command hut. On entering he discovered a comparable level of cacophony, prompting him to inquire to no one in particular, “I say, what in the name of Stirling Bridge is going on?”

  Turning to observe Leftenant Stewart, Colonel Wilson responded abruptly, “General Alexander has ordered Rangoon evacuated. That’s what’s going on, Lieutenant!” and, turning back to his task, he ordered surreptitiously, “Now, let’s get everything we can out of here as quickly as possible. Whatever we can’t take with us, we have to destroy!”

  “Yes, sir,” Sloan responded respectfully. Two hours later, they were heading north in the jeep, along with the entire British Army of Burma. The next several months were a non-stop exercise in escape from the perpetually encroaching Japanese Army. Although Colonel Wilson managed to keep his battalion pushing northwards, they were constantly hindered by rain, clogged roadways, and growing numbers of fleeing refugees. The entire spring was one of unimaginable misery, occasional torrential rains creating unhealthy circumstances that led to an interminable plethora of illnesses among the retreating troops.

  In May Colonel Wilson’s troops were finally run to ground by the onrushing Japanese and, exhausted and ill-equipped, they surrendered shortly thereafter. By then Sloan was in bad shape, having experienced all he could stand of jungle warfare. But that was nothing as compared to the treatment he and his fellow prisoners of war were subsequently afforded at the hands of the Japanese Army. They were immediately marched forty miles through the jungle, the stifling monsoon season taking a heavy toll, and forced to build their own prisoner of war camp.

  By mid-July the relentless cycle of stifling heat interrupted by torrential rains had reduced the camp to little more than an enormous and ill-equipped hospital. By that point, nearly a fourth of the prisoners of war had perished from illness or malnutrition. For his part, Sloan had descended into a state of near oblivion, surviving initially week to week, then day to day, and eventually hour to hour. Their daily ration consisted of a bowl of rice and a quart of water, all of which led to a steady deterioration in overall health within the camp. Thankfully, the monsoon ended shortly thereafter, conditions within the camp improving somewhat as a result.

  January, 1943

  Sloan lay half-delirious within his makeshift bunk, the stench of accumulated sweat having long since become inconsequential. On this day his extreme state of exhaustion afforded him a rare opportunity to daydream and, envisioning something vaguely reminiscent of an orchard, there seemed to be a lake off in the distance. Frowning in his semi-conscious state, he struggled to apply another brush stroke to the image within his dream. Abruptly encroaching on his reverie, a sonorous voice exclaimed gruffly, “Wake up!”

  “What the...?” he responded, adding groggily to no one in particular, “What’s going on?”

  “They’re moving us, to another camp,” Colonel Wilson responded wearily.

  “Oh, God, I hope it’s not too far, sir,” Sloan groaned meekly, “The men can’t take too much at this point.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” Colonel Wilson responded, and at this he dragged himself upward and limped uncertainly from the hut. Sloan grunted and, pushing himself into a standing position, he stretched his aching muscles in preparation for the coming challenge.

  Within minutes Colonel Wilson was back, reporting with resignation, “They’re telling us we’ll be marched for three days, arriving at another prisoner camp. Apparently, the Japanese are building a railway connecting Thailand to Burma. We’re being assigned to help with the construction. Our immediate charge is to build a section of the railway in the Khwae Noi Valley. Apparently we’re being relocated there for that purpose.”

  “How far do you think we’ll have to march, sir?” Sloan inquired fearfully.

  “I’m not sure, could be as much as a hundred miles, I reckon.”

  “Bloody hell! If it’s that far, we shall lose quite a lot of men.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that, but we have no choice in the matter. We shall simply have to carry on as ordered. Otherwise, they shall shoot us where we stand.”

  “I say,” Sloan exclaimed, “You’re telling me we’re going to build a bridge so that the Japanese army can kill more people, right?”

  “Bollocks, lieutenant! Doesn’t sound good at all when you put it that way,” Colonel Wilson responded jadedly. “I prefer to think of it this way – we shall do exactly as we are ordered so that we can survive this war.”

  “How long do you think it will take – to build the bridge, sir?”

  “No idea, but does it really matter? Tis something to keep us quite occupied, and perhaps that will help us to keep going, lieutenant.”

  “Right, sir. But in the meantime, quite a lot of us are going to die from the sheer effort involved,” Sloan mumbled to himself.

  Perceiving Sloan’s sense of despair, Colonel Wilson responded with newfound willpower, “Damn right, but just as many of us are going to die from just lying around in this stinking jungle, if you ask me!”

  “I suppose you are quite correct, Colonel,” Sloan responded with newborn resolve, “When do we set off, sir?”

  “We shall be setting out tomorrow. I expect that we shall be chopping timber before the week is out,” he observed, adding with misplaced optimism, “Cheer up, lieutenant, it will keep you going.”

  “I don’t need anything to keep me going, sir. I already have something for that.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “A Van Gogh, right up here in my head. Most amazing painting you’ll ever see.”

  “Which one?”

  “Which what, sir?”

  “Which Van Gogh,” Colonel Wilson inquired. “I seem to recall one named ‘Starry Night’, or something like that.”

  “Oh, this one hasn’t been seen yet, sir.”

  “What? Why ever for, leftenant?”

  “Because I haven’t put it on canvas yet. That’s why!” Sloan exclaimed facetiously.

  “Ah, I see, you’re forging your very own Van Gogh in your head, is that it?” the colonel queried inanely.

  “Yes, sir, that’s it precisely.”

  “And just exactly what is it a painting of?”

  “Tis a portrait of a woman, sir.”

  “Hmmm…” the colonel mumbled, “Sounds intriguing. And what, pray tell, is this woman doing?”

  “She’s taking a shower, of course.”

  “Why am I not surprised, lieutenant,” Colonel Wilson responded, “I don’t recall ever having seen a pornographic Van Gogh. I should think it will sell quit
e well.”

  “Ha! You think I’d sell my Van Gogh!” Sloan shot back, “Not a chance!”

  “Then why paint it?”

  “Tis keeping me alive, sir.”

  “Bollocks! I shall just bet tis keeping you alive,” Colonel Wilson mumbled, shaking his head in disbelief, “Sounds more like tis keeping you at attention!”

  “No, sir, tis nothing of the kind. Tis simply keeping me going until I can get home and see the real article,” Sloan announced with palpable self-assurance.

  “And just exactly when do I get to see this painting, lieutenant?” Colonel Wilson inquired, now having become completely distracted from reality.

  “After the war is over, I shall show it to you, Colonel. You shall see, sir, tis priceless!”

  “We shall see about that,” Colonel Wilson responded and, suddenly returning to reality, he commanded abruptly, “Now, get some sleep, lieutenant. We must hike twenty or thirty miles tomorrow, doubtless through some vermin-infested swamps, if I know our captors.”

  May, 1943

  Sloan rolled over on his bunk, his tortuous demons keeping him awake. It was like a double edged sword - his memories affording him little sleep, but at the same time occupying his deepest thoughts - in the process somehow steeling him to live.

  “As long as it takes,” he told himself, “I’m going to survive, and one day I’m going to go home. I’m going to go find that gorgeous chit, and when I do I’m going to swat her on the arse. I’m going to whack that gorgeous bum of hers with this hand if it’s the last thing I ever do on this godforsaken earth,” and so saying, he ogled his own hand, as if it were in fact the object of his desire.

  And so it went, night after night, week after week, the weeks dragging indolently into months. On this night, the ache was so fierce that he knew he would have to take action. He despised himself when he did so, but he knew there was no escaping it. He rolled onto his back, grasped his manhood, and began, slowly at first, then eventually whacking away, finally groaning in relief as his release poured forth, streaming down his leg.

  Of course, the other prisoners could hear him, but decorum had long since vanished in this subhuman place. What little humanity remained ensured that each man allowed his neighbors solitude, in the knowledge that before long his own helpless groan of temporary release would also echo through the camp.

  Now sated, Sloan rolled back onto his side and, despite his release, his thoughts continued to focus on that night long ago, the night when he had become a man. In his mind he traced the outline of her leg, from ankle to waist, the curve defining the very essence of womanhood. Thus focused, his mind’s eye now drifted inward, searching between the thighs, to a spot just where her leg commenced, a juncture where he imagined his hand tracing a line, preparing for the auspicious track of the razor’s edge.

  Sometimes he wondered to himself if it had really been as he imagined it in his mind each and every night, or perhaps his mind had in time embellished the vision, drawing it up into something beyond the reality that it had been on that warm summer’s night. In either case, he never so much as thought to question why such prurient thoughts drove his insatiable will to survive. He only knew that survive he must.

  “No,” he abruptly exclaimed aloud to himself, “It was real, every second of it,” and, opening his eyes, he traced with his finger the curve beneath the line of her breasts across the ceiling of the hut. And then, closing his eyes, there she was, painted within the very forefront of his mind, a Van Gogh for the ages. Had he had a paint brush, she’d have graced his canvas incandescently but, having none, his masterpiece was framed for all eternity within his mind, a priceless work of art, one that lay deep within his injured soul.

  Early October, 1943

  Having now been a prisoner of war for eighteen months, Sloan’s willpower had finally begun to wane. By now he simply floated from day to day. More than one in three of the original detainees had by now succumbed. He himself looked a scarecrow - his clothes, what little there was left of them, hanging loosely about him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten anything other than rice, nor drunk anything other than water. Thankfully, water was not rare, the rain falling nearly every day. And, whereas the rain had been an initial nuisance, he now thought of it as nothing less than the essence of life itself. Though there were the ever-present boils and sores from the constant humidity, the intermittent rainfall nearly every day allowed the prisoners to remain somewhat clean and disinfected.

  He no longer masturbated at night, the ability to ejaculate having long since disappeared due to malnutrition. It mattered not to him, his virility having vanished to an ignominious grave. Instead, he tossed and turned at night, a vision of a gorgeous brunette tormenting him constantly, the details wafting and waning, like images from an over worn fragment of film.

  Somehow, he had to keep going. But at times, he felt himself functioning as a dog. Indeed, he wondered if in his debilitated state he had actually metamorphosed into a canine. He even caught himself on occasion barking in lieu of enunciated words, mere grunts of satisfaction or dissatisfaction. And when he defecated, rare though the occurrence, he simply squatted in the open trench like a dog, entirely oblivious as to whether someone observed him.

  The massive bridge was now nearly complete, the men toiling away each and every day in their subhuman state. On this day Sloan dropped to his knees, exhaustion making it impossible to carry on with the work crew. He had reached the point where death was his only salvation. The other workers, having seen it all too many times, simply kept on toiling away. For his part, Sloan lapsed into delirium.

  “Sloan!” the man next to him exclaimed, “Sloan!” and this time he kicked Sloan furiously.

  Emerging from his momentary stupor, he barked, “What?”

  “Get on your feet, man! The guard is coming this way. If you don’t get up, he will beat you mercilessly until you are dead. Get up!”

  Sloan rose wearily to his feet, grabbed the end of the log and, heaving upwards, he mumbled emotionlessly, “Thanks, Frank. That was a close one.”

  March, 1944

  Sloan, trudging along with the other prisoners toward the worksite, leaned forward and, touching Frank’s sleeve, he asked vacantly, “What month is it, Frank?”

  “Dunno,” Frank responded and, poking his neighbor, he inquired, “Bill, what month is it?”

  “March. At least, I think it’s March,” Bill responded, scratching his beard in thought.

  “We’ve been working on this damn bridge for nearly a year,” Sloan volunteered to no one in particular, “How much longer before it’s finished?”

  “Colonel Wilson says a couple of months,” Frank responded blandly.

  “Wonder what they’ll make us do after that,” Sloan mumbled to himself.

  “Build another one!” Frank replied, “We’re only halfway across Burma, man!”

  “Yeah, but surely there are other crews building further west from here.”

  “Does it matter? As long as they need us, they shall keep on working us. It’s when they no longer need us that I’m concerned about,” Frank added sagely.

  “I shan’t last that long,” Sloan blurted out in exhaustion.

  “Just keep thinking on that brown-haired vixen you described to me,” Frank put in, “She will keep you going. Bloody hell, the thought of her is keeping me going for sure!”

  Sloan eyed him momentarily and responded in all candor, “Thanks, man. I nearly forgot my own painting.”

  November, 1944

  “Sloan!” Frank called.

  “I say, what do you want?” Sloan answered from his bunk.

  “Colonel Wilson wants you,” Frank responded.

  “Right,” Sloan replied, rising wearily as he said this. “What does he want?”

  “No idea. Ours is not to question why, and all that rot, old chap.”

  Sloan walked as briskly as he could to the colonel’s hut and, on arrivin
g, he saluted, saying, “You wanted me, sir?”

  Stretched out on his bunk, Colonel Wilson replied, “Right, Sloan, I did. Look here, old chap, my health is none too good. I’m afraid I may not last out the week.”

  “What seems to be the problem, sir?”

  “Probably dysentery. God knows, I can’t keep anything inside me. Everything goes right through.”

  “Sorry to hear that, sir,” Sloan replied.

  “Listen, in case, I don’t make it, I shall need a replacement. Are you willing to take it on?”

  “Take on what, sir?”

  “Command,” was the single word reply.

  “What - of the whole battalion, sir?”

  “Yes, such as it is, that is what I am asking.”

  “But what about Wilkins, and Fortenberry, sir? Both of them outrank me.”

  “I know, but look here, it’s obvious that neither of them is able to take command. Wilkins is simply lost in the current situation, and Fortenberry is much too sickly. I’ve talked with the both of them, and they agree that you’re the man for the job.”

  “Uhm, I’m not quite certain I’m up to it either, sir.”

  “Right. Show me someone that is, soldier.”

  Sloan leaned on the hut wall for a moment and, contemplating momentarily, he responded, “Yes, I understand, sir, but to be honest, I’m not certain I want to do it.”

  “Precisely,” Colonel Wilson responded, “That’s why you’re the man for the job. Now, stand to attention, soldier!” and at this, Sloan did as commanded, Colonel Wilson continuing with, “Lieutenant Stewart, I hereby promote you to the rank of Major, and I appoint you to command of the battalion at such time that I am no longer able to do so.” And at this he saluted Sloan, who silently returned his salute.

  Colonel Wilson died the following week.

  April, 1945

  “Major Stewart! Wake up, sir!” the voice said. Sloan rolled over to one side, refusing to awaken. He had been dreaming of a brown-haired nymph. She had led him on a merry chase through the jungle and each time he had managed to come close, she had darted away, remaining just out of reach.

  Irritated at the hand shoving him awake, he muttered over his shoulder to the offending party, “What! What do you want?”

  “Sir, the guards have disappeared!”

  Suddenly fully awake, he croaked, “What!” Rolling over to face the soldier, he swatted a fly away, querying, “What did you say?”

  “The camp has been deserted, sir! The Japanese army is gone!”

  At this, Sloan sat up and, scratching his unshaven face in thought, he commanded, “Assemble the men, sergeant. Let’s find out what’s going on here.”

  Ten minutes later, the troops assembled, Sloan announced, “Men, it appears that the enemy is on the run. Now, for those of you who consider this to be good news, may I remind you that just because we have no guards, it does not mean that we have been liberated. We still have this damned jungle to contend with, and we have no idea how long it will be before our own troops reach us. Therefore, I would advise you all to continue with your assigned military responsibilities. I shall assign a detail to reconnoiter for the purpose of determining what supplies are available, our main challenge being to stay alive until help arrives.”

  The camp was liberated by British troops ten days later. Against all odds, Sloan and half of his fellow prisoners of war had survived nearly three years of incarceration at the hands of the Japanese Imperial Army.