by Hill, David
Guards swore and yelled as they fired. Prisoners were trying to escape now, running or limping towards their huts. A gun fired — careful, aimed shots — and three of them fell, too.
One guard threw up his arms and collapsed. Hit by what? A whistle shrilled; someone bawled ‘Cease fire! Cease fire!’ The shots kept on. Men ran, and screamed, and fell, and moaned. Where was Ito? Was he dead, with his men?
Other voices howled, close by. Our voices, screaming ‘No! Stop! No!’ Clarry was crying, hugging himself, bent over. Still more shots. The whistle blasted again.
The guns stopped. As suddenly as they had begun, they stopped. No more firing. Only someone shouting orders, desperately, hopelessly, while screams and moans still rose.
And someone calling our names. My dad, rushing towards us, his face shocked and disbelieving, grabbing the three of us, dragging us back behind the hut, gasping ‘Ewen! … Boys!’ over and over again.
While from the military compound where our sensei had fallen, the terrible wailing went on.
FRIDAY, 26 FEBRUARY A truck got us back home — a truck tearing into Featherston for Dr Waterstone and all the medical supplies he could bring. Dad stopped it at the main gate, chucked our bikes and cart on the back while he gabbled to the driver, and bundled us up there, too. He stood watching us as the camp dwindled behind and the sounds of death dwindled, too.
The three of us huddled together, Barry with his arms around Clarry, who still shuddered and sobbed. My friend and I said nothing. We couldn’t. The falling, screaming bodies were still there in front of me. The shooting, the terrified rushes to escape, the frantic orders and whistle blasts. And Ito, sinking down among his men after the first shot.
People stood on the footpath as we hurtled into town, staring along the road towards the camp. They must have heard the gunfire. They gaped as we swung past, three boys shaking and crying on the back of an army truck. The driver — a guard I hadn’t seen before — screeched to a stop outside the Morrises. Mrs Morris appeared at the door, took one look, and rushed towards us. ‘What’s happened? Clarry, Barry, are you alright?’
‘There’s been— Trouble at the camp,’ went the guard. ‘The boys are OK, missus. I’ve got to go.’ Next minute, he was back in the cab, and roaring off down the street. A siren had started up in the town centre; another rose on the main highway nearby.
It took a while for any of us to make sense. ‘Why were you at the camp? What for?’ my friends’ mother kept asking. Her arms were around both her sons. Barry had begun crying, too, and I realised tears were running down my own face, while I clutched myself and trembled.
The front gate clicked. Feet hurried up the path. ‘Ena?’ came my mother’s voice. ‘Ena, have you heard all the sirens? What’s happening? Do you know where the boys went?’ Then she saw us. Her eyes stretched wide; she seized me and pulled me against her. I heard myself choking and howling.
Bit by bit, we managed to tell. How we had wanted to see Ito, show him our writing, say how we wanted to help. The crowd of prisoners; the guards and guns ringing them; the orders and refusals. Then the attempts to grab the Jap officer and our sensei. The punches and kicks and flying stones. And finally, the shots and screams, and the guns that didn’t stop.
Our mothers held us as we gasped and cried out. Barry’s stammer was back; he could hardly say a word. Clarry wept and trembled. My body wouldn’t stop shaking. The two women were crying as well, I realised. ‘Ito … Ito is shot!’ I managed to say. ‘He’s dead. He’s dead!’
I can’t remember Mum helping me home. She put me to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I felt sick. My heart raced; my body wouldn’t stop shaking; my teeth chattered. My mother sat on the edge of the bed, murmuring to me, stroking my hair. After a while, she got me to sit on the back steps in the sun with her, and I started to calm down a bit.
Feet approached around the side of our house. Mr Morris. ‘Jack rang me at work,’ he told Mum. ‘He’s alright, Molly. Ewen’s told you what happened?’ I heard him and my mother talking, heard Mr Morris go ‘God, what a mess. Poor sods.’ I didn’t notice when he went away.
Mum tried to make me eat some lunch, but I couldn’t. So we sat in the sun, the two of us, arms around each other. The thunderclouds had gone. The day was clear and blue, and just a couple of miles away all those men lay dead or wounded.
Sirens kept wailing on the main road. I still cried, in an exhausted sort of way, but I was able to tell Mum a bit more. She murmured, ‘It’s alright, love. It’s alright,’ over and over again, and held me like she hadn’t since I was a little kid.
Dad came home at about four o’clock. I heard him in the kitchen; Mum called, ‘Out here, Jack,’ and next minute he was beside us. His face was tight and strained; he looked worn out. He squatted down, took my hands in his. I opened my mouth to try to ask him, even though I was terrified of what the answer might be.
He spoke first. ‘Ito’s alive, son. He’s wounded, but he’s going to live.’ The moment I heard the words, I burst into tears again.
All that was yesterday. Today I went to school.
Yeah, I went to school, even though I had watched at least thirty Japanese prisoners of war shot dead, and even more wounded — some so badly, they’ll probably die. Dad told me the numbers this morning, when I asked. Mum began to say, ‘Don’t—’ but he stopped her.
‘Ewen was there. He knows the truth.’
There was nothing in the news about it. I guess they were worried about the Jap government finding out, and what they might do to our blokes in their POW camps.
I said I wanted to go to school. Mum looked worried, but Dad put his arm around her, said, ‘Let him.’ He hasn’t asked me why we were at the camp. He keeps putting his hand on my shoulder, ruffling my hair, things he hasn’t done much since I was little.
Barry and Clarry were waiting when I reached their place. Somehow I thought they would be. They looked tired. So do I, I guess.
Mrs Morris hugged her sons before we left. ‘I should skin the three of you alive,’ she went, and smiled a wobbly sort of smile at us. Mr Morris was there, too.
‘Sorry, Ewen,’ he told me. ‘I know how you all liked that Ito bloke. You did your best — you and him.’ When I think of how Mr Morris feels about Japs, it was pretty special to hear him say that.
Being at school helped. I can’t remember much about the lessons. A few times I felt Barry start shaking where he sat beside me. I kept hearing noises and seeing things from yesterday, too. The screams and shots; the rush and collapse of bodies. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forget them.
Mr White paused beside our desks, and spoke quietly. ‘Just go outside if you want to. But be dauntless, lads. Be dauntless.’ I remembered the word, and, even though my own body shuddered sometimes, I promised myself I would be.
We had a special assembly, where the headmaster said how we had no doubt heard of the terrible events at the POW camp yesterday, but it was all under control, and we should stay calm. At lunchtime, Anzac asked, ‘You OK?’ When I nodded, he said his sister had great news: her Yank boyfriend has been wounded slightly, and he’s being sent back here to recover. ‘They’re going to get engaged, Moana says. Soppy!’
One other thing. I was heading outside at morning playtime when Susan appeared in front of me. She reached out and held my hands. Both my hands, in hers. I stared down. Her fingers were clean and neat-looking; they felt soft and warm against mine. ‘You be careful, Ewen,’ she went. ‘Please.’
Dad told me some more at night. Ambulances and doctors had come from Wellington and Palmerston North. The wounded Japs were in hospitals all over the place. He didn’t know where Ito had been sent, but he was definitely going to recover. ‘Getting hit first and falling saved him, I guess.’ One New Zealand guard was dead, killed by a ricocheting bullet. I remembered seeing the figure in khaki go down. I remembered all those figures in blue dropping, too, and I started to shake once more.
There was something I had to ask. I tried
to speak, choked up. I swallowed, and started again.
‘Dad? Who— Whose fault was it? Who made it happen?’
My father gazed at me. He still looked tired. ‘Nobody, son,’ he murmured. ‘Nobody. And everybody.’
SATURDAY, 27 FEBRUARY I went to the Morrises’ after breakfast and we played Sink the German Navy. A normal weekend? Not for all those prisoners and the guard whose lives ended two days ago, and the ones who are still wounded — dying, in some cases — in hospitals. Not normal for us, either, if you heard Barry stammering sometimes, or saw Clarry stare into space and hug himself, or knew about me waking up screaming in the night, because I’d dreamed Ito was standing, trying to protect his men, while bullets hit all over his body and blood streamed down.
I don’t know what is going to happen at the camp. Things are quiet there; I guess everyone must still be shocked. The other prisoners have held a ceremony for the dead; Colonel Wallace said they could.
I know that the camp is quiet, because the three of us biked out there before lunch. The streets of Featherston were sunny and peaceful; the paddocks beside the main road were full of sheep and cattle grazing. Birds sang in the warm air.
A couple of work parties were hoeing in the outside gardens. Through the barbed wire, we saw others sitting and talking. You would never have guessed that forty-eight hours ago the same place was filled with bullets and flying stones and the howls of dying men.
We stopped on the main road and watched for a while. We didn’t go up to the barrier, where a guard in a lemon-squeezer hat waved at us. We didn’t think about going into the camp. We’ve promised our parents — really promised — that we won’t do that again.
The death toll is still rising. Nearly fifty Japs now, plus others who aren’t expected to live. The little bloke who carved Dad’s fish is OK. Some New Zealand guards were injured by flying stones. Dad hasn’t found out yet where Ito is. The army’s keeping everything as quiet as they can. The dead Japanese have been cremated and their ashes kept. I wonder what’ll be done with them. That Swiss man has been to the camp, to hear what happened. I don’t know whether he’ll tell the Japanese government. I hope not.
I made myself keep doing things. If I didn’t, all of Thursday’s noises and sights started churning in my head. I could hear myself start gasping. Mum sat on the back step in the sun, with her arms around me again. Dad kept patting my shoulder, saying ‘You’re a gutsy little bloke, son.’ Once he added, ‘Even if you don’t do what you’re told,’ and I managed a half-grin.
I was glad when Mum asked me to take some cucumbers and tomatoes over to Mrs Laurie. I walked, to make it last longer. While I was out, I met three people.
I was passing the closed shops (it’s Saturday), when Tak Yee called out to me. He was carrying some boxes out his side door. ‘You all light?’ he asked. I said yeah, though I could hear my voice shaking as I spoke.
He looked at me. ‘Japanese have done cruel things. We must not forget. But not all are bad. Good people are in every country.’ He patted my shoulder, like Dad, and went on: ‘You and Crarry and Barry, you work for me again sometime, OK?’
Old Mrs Laurie was pleased to see me — and the vegetables. Her grandson is getting a medal for his coast-watching. She’s just glad that he won’t be in such danger any more.
‘I’m so sorry about what happened at the camp, Ewen,’ she said as I left. I stared at the ground, in case I started howling again. ‘Your father is a good, brave man.’ I looked up, and she was smiling at me. ‘You’re going to be one, too. Well done.’
I met the third person when I was almost back home. Mrs Connell. I opened my mouth to say hello, but she was already speaking.
‘So a lot of your little yellow friends got what they deserved. Serves them right. Nasty little swine, all of them. Good riddance, I say.’
I looked at her for a moment. Then I said, ‘Goodbye, Mrs Connell,’ and kept going. I didn’t tell Mum and Dad when I got home. I thought of all the hate bubbling inside her, and I felt sorry for her. I wonder if it was her who sent that letter to Mrs Proctor.
SUNDAY, 28 FEBRUARY Two months of 1943 over already.
The government and the army are going to have a sort of trial about the shootings: a committee or something to find out exactly what happened, whose fault it was, how to stop anything like it from happening again.
I don’t know if it was anyone’s fault. Both sides tried to stop it. No, that’s not right: some people on both sides tried to stop it. Others wanted it to happen — the Japs who welcomed the chance to die, in spite of all that Ito and the others did; some of our guards who called them names, treated them like they were hardly human. People outside the army, too: Mrs Connell; those men yelling insults from the cars; others like them. Dad had it right when I’d asked him who’d started things. Nobody. Everybody.
Did Ito do any good? Did we? None of us stopped those awful things from happening. But we tried. We tried to understand, and, like Dad and Mr White said, that’s the right thing to do.
Dad’s at the camp this morning. He’s talked to Captain Ashton the interpreter, who’s been recovering from busted ribs where that stone hit him. Captain Ashton’s been visiting the wounded prisoners, getting information for the inquiry. He says the shot broke a bone in Ito’s arm, but that’s all. We’re not allowed to know where he is, but Captain Ashton has promised Dad that he’ll say hello from us.
I think of our sensei all the time. Him and his son; what he taught us; the way he’s made me see things differently. He’s special. Barry and Clarry and I all want to see him again, here in New Zealand or even in Japan someday. Clarry keeps telling us how he’s going to visit Japan when he’s older, ‘after I’ve climbed Mt Egmont’.
Yeah, he’s still on about that. He’s getting stronger all the time; you can see it. Stronger and more annoying, like any little brother.
Will the war be over this year? I’m not sure any longer. The BBC News said last night that the Nazis are retreating in Russia and that the Japs have lost more islands in the Pacific, but I’m starting to understand that there could be a lot of battles to come. Will we kids have to fight when we’re grown up? I hope not.
The Morrises were over at their gran’s for most of today. I stayed home. I had to, because some visitors arrived. They weren’t visitors I was expecting.
First, there was a knock at the door around morning-tea time, just after I’d carried in some firewood for the kitchen range. I heard Mum say ‘Hello’ in a surprised voice. When I heard the other voice, I didn’t feel surprised. I felt amazed — and terrified. It was Miss Mutter. What had I done wrong?
Mum brought her through to the kitchen, and asked if she would like a cup of tea. Barry’s speech teacher (had he done something wrong?) said that was very kind, and went ‘Morning, Ewen.’
I went ‘Good morning, Miss Mutter’, and felt like I was a primer kid again. I didn’t dare leave the room, so I sat as still as I could on the far side of the table, while Mum got some tea. Miss Mutter was in her usual black dress, black shoes, and a weird little black hat. I guess she had been to church.
‘Well, Mrs MacKenzie,’ she went. ‘I’m shorry for barging in like thish, but I wanted to shay well done to you, and to Ewen. You musht be proud of him. I hope he’s proud of you and Mr MacKenzie — are you, Ewen?’
Mum stared. I stared. We both mumbled something. ‘I know how you and your father have tried to make thingsh better with the prishoners, tried to do something towards ending all this hatred and ignoransh. I think Ewen and Barry and Clarence are brave young ladsh. They’re a credit to you, Mrs MacKenzie.’
Mum smiled. ‘That’s very nice of you. Yes, we are proud of Ewen, even if we want to box his ears sometimes. And Miss Mutter, I think you should feel proud of yourself, too. Taking in Mrs Sutcliffe and her children — that was so kind.’
The small, black-dressed figure gazed at the table for a second.
‘Too many good, innocent people shuffer in wars, in all shorts o
f ways.’ I remembered how her fiancé had died in the Great War.
She looked at me. ‘Trying to undershtand other people is alwaysh good. Right, Ewen?’
‘Yeah,’ I went.
Miss Mutter glared. ‘Yesh, not yeah! Do I have to shtart giving you shpeech lessonsh, too?’
Our second visitor arrived after lunch. Dad was back. The Swiss bloke and Captain Ashton were talking to prisoners, he said, getting evidence. Things were quiet at the camp. The civilian Japs were providing work parties. Colonel Wallace was going to hold a meeting with some of them.
We were standing outside while Mum told Dad that when the war was over, she would really like some roses where his cauliflowers were now, and he was joking about eating chops and roses.
A car stopped outside, the front gate clicked, and Mrs Proctor came up the path.
So Mum made yet another pot of tea. Mrs Proctor also said she was sorry for barging in like this, and went on to say: ‘I’ve come to ask you all a favour.’
Mum and Dad looked at her. ‘I wonder if Ewen and the Morris boys would like to keep doing some Japanese lessons with me,’ she continued. ‘I know it’s not the best time to ask, after the terrible things that have happened, but Mr Proctor and I think Ewen and his friends were so brave, and tried so hard. We don’t want them to think it was all in vain. There are people in Featherston who don’t like the idea, but if you don’t mind, I’m willing to help.’ She gave me a smile. ‘I know Susan and Margaret enjoyed the lessons.’
They thought I was brave? Susan would like to do more lessons with me? Huh, she probably thinks she can beat me this time.
My parents were smiling, too. ‘What do you think, son?’ Mum went.
I opened my mouth to say ‘Yeah’, remembered Miss Mutter, and changed it to ‘Yes’. Then, before I knew I was going to say it, I said, ‘I think Lieutenant Ito would like us to.’
My dad nodded, and put his good hand on my shoulder. ‘I reckon he would, too, pal.’
I’m looking forward to those lessons. And to other things, too. Talking to Susan. (I’d never have believed that when I started this journal!) Reading. Growing up and being an author, maybe. Mr White is right. This is a special place and a special time. I want to remember it.