Enemy Camp

by Hill, David

  The Morris kids went to their gran after school. I biked carefully home; my back tyre is nearly worn out. Me going to the Proctor place! A couple of months back, I’d have imagined it was a dream. Or a nightmare.

  TUESDAY, 16 FEBRUARY Dad talked some more about the camp last night. Colonel Wallace isn’t just worried about trouble with the prisoners. He’s worried what might happen to our blokes in Jap POW camps overseas if things go wrong here and the Nips learn of it, so he’s trying to keep things really tight.

  I told my parents what Susan had said about the extra Japanese lessons, and I caught them giving a quick smile to each other.

  ‘Good idea, son,’ Dad said. ‘Say thank you to Mrs Proctor, and make sure you’re polite to all of them. Some people think they’re better than others just because they’ve got more money, but you—’

  ‘I am sure the Proctors mean well, Jack,’ Mum went. ‘Saturday, is it, Ewen? I’ll make sure your good white shirt is ironed.’

  Aw no! Did I have to wear good clothes? Barry and Clarry would laugh their heads off.

  Then the first thing Clarry said this morning was, ‘Mum says it’s fine for us to go to the Proctors’, but we have to wear our good clothes! Would you believe it?’

  When I told Susan, she smiled. ‘That’s good, Ewen. Dad says he can give you all a lift. He’s coming into town to get some things.’

  A ride in the Proctors’ flash car. Great!

  WEDNESDAY, 17 FEBRUARY Nothing.

  THURSDAY, 18 FEBRUARY The good news is that Ito wants us to come for a lesson on Sunday. That’s the day after we go to the Proctors’, so we might have some new words for him.

  The bad news is what Barry told me yesterday at school. He was quiet all morning, then at lunchtime he began saying how his father had been down at the pub after his train-driving on Tuesday, and got talking to some blokes who are guards at the camp. When Mr Morris came home, he told Mrs Morris how some of those Nips were looking for trouble, and it would serve the ugly little yellow sods right if they got more than they expected. Barry said his mother was trying to shut Mr Morris up, but the boys could hear from their room. My best friend’s stammer got bad again as he described it.

  The BBC News at nine o’clock says the Russians have captured a big town from the Nazis. Hurray! I’ve finished We Didn’t Mean to Go to Sea: I wonder if Bruce has any more. Dad says his friend reads to some of the civilian prisoners, to teach them English. So he’s helping people understand and respect one another, too. I want Ito to be able to tell the other prisoners that we’re doing that as well.

  FRIDAY, 19 FEBRUARY Today Mr White asked whether any of us had kept writing our journals over the holidays. One hand went up. Mine. Our teacher said, ‘Perhaps we could recommence next week. As I said, these are special times.’ I wonder if I’m the only one who wants to be an author, too.

  There’s a film at the town hall tomorrow night, and Mum says we’ll try to go. It’ll be easy with the streetlights on. Last night there were cars going up our street with their headlights shining, not shaded like they had to be in the blackout. It all shows that the war should be over soon. I hope the Japs understand that.

  And we’re going for a picnic out at the river on Sunday. Us and the Morrises. Our two mothers have been arranging it. They say it’s time we had one, and anyway this year is going to get better and better. Yeah!

  Nothing else happened at school. Susan said, ‘See you tomorrow. Dad will pick you up about ten o’clock.’ I saw this silly smile on Barry’s face. I kept thinking: I’m going to Susan Proctor’s! I’m going to ride in that big flash car!

  The Morrises came over to play cards at night. Mr Morris didn’t say anything about the Japs. We three kids spent most of the time in my room. Clarry suddenly said, ‘Do you two like girls?’

  I didn’t look at Barry. He didn’t look at me. Just then, Mum called out that supper was ready. Phew.

  SATURDAY, 20 FEBRUARY Mr Proctor didn’t pick us up in his big flash car after all.

  Dad left for camp early. There are still talks going on with the Japs about work parties. Everyone agrees that prisoners of war shouldn’t have to do things that might help the enemy’s armies, like working in weapons factories. Making a vegetable garden is OK. Repairing roads where army trucks might travel? Dad says that’s what Colonel Wallace and Ito are arguing about.

  I went around to the Morrises, wearing my good white shirt and clean roman sandals, and feeling embarrassed. Clarry and Barry had good shoes and socks, and their hair brushed and combed. We pulled faces at one another.

  Clarry wasn’t wearing his leg braces. ‘Mum said if I did extra exercises this morning, I could leave them off while we are at the Proctors’. So I did extra, extra exercises!’

  A car engine outside. A big one. A knock at the Morrises’ front door, and Mr Proctor was there. We three followed him out to the footpath and his car.

  His car wasn’t there. Instead, a big farm truck stood waiting. I thought of the special ride I’d been waiting for.

  ‘Had to deliver a few swedes and turnips,’ Susan’s father told us. ‘Hop in.’

  We all crammed onto the front bench seat. Mr Proctor is a burly guy, like I said, but we managed. ‘Everyone breathe in together.’ He chuckled.

  We were way up high, and I could see into people’s front yards and right across the paddocks outside town. After fifteen minutes or so, we turned into a long driveway. Tall trees rose on both sides. Around a corner, and there was a big white house with an orange roof.

  Margaret and Susan came out onto the front steps. I counted them — the steps, not the girls. There were four, leading up to the door. The house looked like those you see in books about England.

  Susan had a blue dress; Margaret had a yellow one. Suddenly, I felt pleased I was wearing my good shirt. We went inside, into a big, high hall with pictures and doors along it. Clarry’s mouth hung open; I was staring, too.

  Mrs Proctor appeared, tall and smiling, in the sort of frock that Mum wears only when she’s going out. She asked whether we’d like some lemonade, and took us and the girls into an enormous kitchen — they have a refrigerator! — and poured us a drink. Mum’s lemonade tastes better, but I didn’t say so.

  ‘Let’s go into the library.’ They had a library? She led us down the hall to a room with windows as high as our house, big brown armchairs, and a wall full of books. A whole wall! I kept staring at them, trying to see what they were.

  Mrs Proctor knows a lot about what’s happening at the camp. She mentioned Ito; we blokes said what a good teacher he is.

  ‘I thought we might talk about bushido,’ she said. ‘It is the way of behaving that soldiers like Lieutenant Ito are taught.’

  She made it really interesting. Bushido started with ancient Japanese warriors, men called samurai. They had to be brave, to die for their country if they needed to, to never surrender unless their Emperor ordered. They were also supposed to be kind to women and children, and stay loyal to their comrades. That last one was really important, Mrs Proctor said.

  She taught us words about being a samurai, listened to us pronounce them, made us say them again. It was like Ito’s lessons, except we didn’t have to stand and bow. Instead, we sat in the big comfortable armchairs.

  The girls listened hard, and Margaret was good with the Japanese words. Susan made a few mistakes, and I could tell she was annoyed. One time when she got some right, her mother said, ‘Good, sweetheart.’ Susan glanced at me and went pink.

  ‘You boys know a lot already,’ Mrs Proctor told us. I didn’t mind the girls hearing that.

  We talked about the camp. You could tell that Susan’s mother didn’t like the idea of pictures of King George VI being put up in the Nips’ huts, but she was polite.

  ‘You boys are really helping. You’re brave young men.’ I didn’t mind the girls hearing that, either.

  We had more lemonade, and then we kids sat and talked while Mrs Proctor went off to see about something. Barry had h
ardly stammered at all, I realised.

  ‘Do you want to see the books?’ Susan asked. I knew Barry liked talking to Margaret, and Clarry was having a snoop around the room, showing off how well he can walk without his braces. So we two went over to the shelves. ‘See if you like this one,’ Susan said. ‘I know you’re a good reader.’ Another girl’s book, I thought, but I said ‘Yeah, thanks’, and took it.

  And then — Mrs Proctor drove us blokes back into town in their flash car! She had some committee meeting to go to, and she was taking Susan to stay at Margaret’s. (Girls do that sort of thing.) So we all whirred back to Featherston. Nobody waved; didn’t they realise what important people they were seeing?

  The book Susan lent me is called The Happy Return, and it’s not a girl’s one after all. There is this British Navy officer called Horatio Hornblower (what a name!) who gets in all these battles about a hundred years ago. It’s pretty good.

  I told Mum and Dad how our visit to the Proctors’ had gone. When I asked Dad about the camp, he shook his head. ‘Work parties. It’s always about work parties!’ Mum called out, ‘We’d better leave for the pictures in a few minutes’, and he said no more.

  The main picture was Sergeant York. It’s the story of this Yank guy in the Great War who was a conscientious objector, but decided to fight for his country. He was an amazing rifle shot, and saved a lot of his pals in battle. It made me think of the samurai Mrs Proctor had talked about, and of Mrs Sutcliffe at school.

  The town hall was all lit up, with its big blackout curtains gone. Outside, the car headlights and streetlights made everything glow. We walked home slowly. I told myself again that I’d do everything I could to help Ito change people’s minds. After all, everyone can change their mind. I have, about Susan Proctor.

  SUNDAY, 21 FEBRUARY Barry and Clarry and Dad and I biked out to the camp soon after breakfast.

  I told the other kids about last night’s film. Barry says Mrs Sutcliffe’s husband is a conscientious objector because he thinks killing another person can never be right.

  ‘I guess all wars are different, lads,’ Dad said. ‘I dunno if Hitler or the Japs could be stopped any other way.’

  ‘The k-kids call Miss M-Mutter “auntie”,’ Barry said next. I tried to imagine it.

  My father smiled. ‘I told you she taught me one year? She’s been there forever. Makes you wonder what sort of life she’d have had if her fiancé hadn’t been killed in the first war.’

  After we stopped at the camp barrier, a guard led us into the civilian compound and then the hut. He was someone we’d met before — my father! (He said, ‘I didn’t tell you it was going to be me. Thought you might be embarrassed.’)

  Around us, prisoners stood in groups, talking, or sat playing Go. Some went silent as we approached. Some watched, or nodded. It seemed quieter than last time.

  My father led us to the usual hut. Just a minute later, another guard brought Ito in and left him. We kids stood and bowed.

  Dad went, ‘Morning, Lieutenant Ito,’ and our sensei nodded to him. Once again, I felt that the two of them respected each other.

  We went straight into the lesson, standing and repeating words, standing again and repeating again.

  After a while, Ito said, ‘Today, I teach you the Japanese sword.’ So we learned how every sword is different; how the blades used to be made at night so that the light of the flames showed up any little flaws; how the most famous swords have their own names; how Japanese officers in this war still carry swords sometimes.

  ‘The great men with swords were warriors, hundreds of years ago. The word for them is—’

  ‘—samurai!’ Clarry interrupted. He stumbled to his feet and gulped. ‘Sorry, sensei. We learned it yesterday.’

  ‘You learn it?’ Ito’s face showed no expression. ‘How is this?’

  We told him about Mrs Proctor’s lesson. We didn’t mention the girls; we all felt he wouldn’t be keen on that. He stood, calm and still as always, while we talked. When we finished, he was silent for a little while. Then he looked at my father.

  ‘This is good. When people know other people, this is good.’ I saw my Dad smile.

  We learned more: how every type of sword has a different edge; how some are carved like sculptures. Then Ito went: ‘You have question?’

  I asked if he had a sword. ‘It is with my brother officers. At home.’

  Barry stood and said: ‘Mrs P-Proctor told us a true samurai is always loyal to his friends. Is that right?’

  A moment’s silence. ‘Every Japanese soldier must be loyal,’ the quiet figure finally said. ‘To his Emperor. To his comrades. That is the first thing.’

  He was telling us something else, too. Somehow, I knew it. I opened my mouth, but Clarry shot up. ‘We are loyal to our friends, too, sensei. Your son, Haru, is he like that?’

  My father stirred. Ito was gazing at the wall. ‘He will know. He will be.’ A beat, then: ‘We finish now.’

  The three of us stood and bowed. Dad stood, too. Our sensei was halfway to the door when he stopped, and turned to my father. ‘They are fine boys. I will remember.’

  He reached out his hand. My father took it with his good one. They stood, gazing at each other, and I knew I was seeing something special. Then Ito turned again to us. One by one, he shook our hands. ‘Be strong,’ he went. ‘Be men.’ He left the room.

  We kids looked at one another. My father stood with his lips pursed; I could tell he was puzzled, too. ‘Alright, lads. We’ll see you on your way. Tell your mum I’ll be home in time for the picnic, Ewen.’

  Prisoners in the military compound were wrestling as we made our way to the gates. Elsewhere, the talking went on. Did things feel different? I couldn’t tell.

  This afternoon, we three MacKenzies and four Morrises had our picnic at the Tauherenikau River. Mr Morris had an old Railways truck (don’t ask me how), and we kids plus Mum and Dad bounced on the back while he drove out.

  Last time we’d been there, just after Christmas, we’d seen the prisoners working on the racecourse. Today it was just us. Mr Morris and Dad made a fire and boiled a billy, while Mum and Mrs Morris sat on a rug and gossiped.

  Barry and Clarry and I mucked about in the water. Barry is getting taller; so am I, I suppose. But it was Clarry who everyone looked at. He’s brown from summer, like us, but he looks so much stronger. He’s still careful how he stands and walks, but today I knew for sure: he’s going to be alright.

  We drank billy tea that tasted of smoke. There were tomatoes from our garden, and plums from the Watsons’ next door. Mum had made sandwiches, and Mrs Morris had saved some Christmas cake. It was a feast!

  ‘When I was in hospital, they gave us these really awful steamed vegetables,’ Clarry said. ‘We had to eat them, or they’d just leave them by the bed. So some of us used to tip them out the windows, into the flower beds.’ He laughed. ‘The flowers died.’

  It was a great, great day.

  MONDAY, 22 FEBRUARY Nothing — except for what is happening at the camp.

  TUESDAY, 23 FEBRUARY I heard about it after school, from Dad’s friend Bruce. I wasn’t meant to.

  At school, the taps weren’t working properly. There was hardly enough water to wash our hands. Susan said her mum wondered if next time we would like to do some Japanese writing and take it to Ito. She’s coming into town tomorrow afternoon, and our headmaster says we can use a classroom after school.

  I said OK. Every bit of writing will help an author. And I kept remembering what Ito said on Sunday. Something is going on, I’m sure of it. Our sensei talked as if he might not see us again. Well, I want to see him again.

  Dad was in the garden, tying up bunches of onions to store. I was just starting to tell him about Mrs Proctor and tomorrow’s lesson when our front gate opened and Bruce came down the path. ‘Hello, pal,’ Dad called. ‘What brings you this way?’

  Bruce wheezed as he came. His face was worried. He didn’t even say hello. ‘Things are looking iffy ou
t at the camp, Jack. Thought you should know.’ He glanced at me. ‘You might want to think twice about Ewen and the other lads going out there for a bit.’

  My dad reached for his tobacco tin. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s the work parties again. Some of them were supposed to go out cutting gorse this morning, and they nearly all refused. Just sat down; said they weren’t going.’

  My father frowned. ‘Gorse-cutting isn’t war work.’

  ‘I know. But some of the Japs are itching for a fight. More and more of them, I reckon.’

  Bruce glanced at me again. My father went: ‘You pop inside, Ewen. See if your mum needs a hand.’ I opened my mouth, but Dad shook his head. ‘Off you go, son.’

  I went, but only part of the way. As soon as I was around the corner, I stopped and stood listening, breathing as quietly as I could.

  ‘One lot from the civilian compound did go out to work in the vegetable gardens,’ Bruce was saying. ‘They’d been there maybe half an hour when some other Nips started yelling to them from inside the wire. Next thing, the ones who were working just up and marched back into camp. The guards ended up trailing along behind them. Some of our fellows are in a filthy mood; reckon the Nips are making them look like idiots, and they won’t put up with it.’

  I heard a match strike. My father puffed on his cigarette. ‘What’s the colonel doing?’

  Bruce kept wheezing. He was worked-up, alright. ‘Any more refusals to join work parties, and they’ll be punished. He hasn’t said how. He called their officers in; told them they weren’t controlling their men properly.’

  ‘That won’t help.’ Dad spoke quietly; I strained to listen. ‘The Japs think their officers are special. Insulting them only makes the others angry.’

  ‘You haven’t heard the worst of it.’ Bruce’s words made me stand even more still. ‘Another of them tried to kill himself — hang himself, like those others. It’s only because there are extra patrols checking the huts that we found him in time. He’s in the camp hospital.’ A pause, more wheezing. ‘The others tried to stop the patrol going in. Our blokes had to jab some of them with bayonets to clear them out of the road. It’s not good, pal. Not good at all.’