No Surrender Soldier

by Christine Kohler

  NO SURRENDER

  SOLDIER

  CHRISTINE KOHLER

  F+W Media, Inc.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chamorro Terms of Address

  Prologue: Guam

  Chapter 1: Crazy Tatan

  Chapter 2: No Surrender Soldier

  Chapter 3: Sammy’s Baseball

  Chapter 4: Destroy Evidence

  Chapter 5: War Never Ends

  Chapter 6: Sirens

  Chapter 7: Bombs

  Chapter 8: Ghosts

  Chapter 9: Bats

  Chapter 10: Hunger

  Chapter 11: Slaughter

  Chapter 12: Rite of Passage

  Chapter 13: Fiesta

  Chapter 14: Regrets

  Chapter 15: Blood Brothers

  Chapter 16: Weeping

  Chapter 17: M.I.A.

  Chapter 18: M.I.A. In the Jungle

  Chapter 19: Lost

  Chapter 20: Straggler

  Chapter 21: Night Crawlers

  Chapter 22: Surrendering

  Chapter 23: Missing Tatan

  Chapter 24: M.I.A. Found

  Chapter 25: Capture

  Chapter 26: Seto’s Plight

  Chapter 27: Seto’s Last Days on Guam

  Chapter 28: Beyond the Horizon

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Research Acknowledgments

  Personal Acknowledgments

  Bibliography

  Copyright

  Chamorro Terms of Address

  The purpose of this glossary is to familiarize you with terms of address in the Chamorro culture. Chamorros are descendants of indigenous Pacific Islanders in the Marianas who inter-married with Spanish sailors. Their language is a mixture of Chamorro and Spanish. Since the United States acquired Guam as a result of the Spanish-American War in 1898, Guamanians—Chamorros included—speak English. Still, their terms of address are Chamorro.

  nana (nan-a)—mother

  nana bihu (nan-a bi-who)—grandmother

  tata (ta-ta)—father

  tatan bihu (ta-tan bi-who)—grandfather

  tan (tan)—aunt

  tihu (tee-who)—uncle

  PROLOGUE

  GUAM

  WORLD WAR II, JULY 21, 1944

  Planes swarmed over Guam in droves. For a moment Lance Corporal Isamu Seto thought he was home in Japan. He was washing his face in the Talofofo River when he heard buzzing sounds. He looked up into the overcast sky and thought locusts were coming to destroy crops in his village of Saori. He blinked and shook his head. Aiee, angry locusts turn into bombers. Amerikans must be attacking.

  Seto threw his field hat on and snatched up his rifle. No time to worry about filling his canteen or fetching his knapsack. Besides, if things did not go well in battle, Seto knew what his superiors required of him. To die honorably, and go the way of the cherry blossoms. He looked at the bayonet on the end of his rifle and swallowed hard against what felt like a peach pit stuck in his throat. He had pledged to die in battle for Emperor Hiro Hito. But could he commit hara-kiri like a true samurai?

  Pain throbbed in his head. He did not want to think of such things. He must join his comrades and go to the mountains to ward off the enemy. Seto jogged upstream to find the soldiers, who were drinking sake, squabbling over a can of salmon, and eating three-day-old rice. He ignored the rumbling of his stomach. No time to break his fast—he kept his eyes on the bombers overhead.

  Ka-boom, ka-boom! Shells dropped in the distance. Fire exploded upward from the earth. Seto ducked as if the bombers aimed directly at him. The soldiers scattered. Seto felt responsible for his comrades since they were young and of lesser rank. He ran, calling for his men. Private Yoshi Nakamura leapt up from the above-ground roots of an evil spirit tree. Private Michi Hayato crawled out from behind a rock. They joined Seto, climbed the cliff, and ran toward the mountain.

  Once together, they hung back at the base of the mountain. They crouched behind scraggly brush and waited. Planes continued to swarm and drop bombs. Ka-boom, ka-boom! Shells exploded—closer, closer. Smoke and the smell of sulfur filled the air. Rifle loaded, eyes fixed high above the ridge, Seto trembled. He waited for the Amerikans.

  The sun seared through the sky, hazy from bombs exploding. It sounded like thunder as tanks rumbled over the mountain crest. Closer, closer tanks roared. US Marines advanced. Plumes of dust, shellfire, and rifle blasts clouded the air. When it cleared, Seto saw in the distance fellow Japanese soldiers lay dead. Those who did not die by enemy gunfire spilled their guts onto the ground with their bayonets. Some Japanese soldiers unpinned grenades under their helmets, and bloody, headless bodies remained.

  Seto retched. His gun was no match for tanks and marines. Their numbers were too great. And his fellow soldiers too quick to die. He spit out the bile taste in his mouth. Tanks rolled over the crest and down the mountain toward Seto and his men. They ran.

  Down the mountain, over the cliff, under the waterfall, into the river, through the mosquito-infested jungle, they ran.

  Too many Amerikans storming the island. Too many Japanese dead, pounded through Seto’s head as sweat streamed out from under his helmet.

  Once in the jungle the soldiers stopped to catch their breaths. Seto listened. Gunfire and bombs burst in the distance. The men looked to Seto for a decision.

  He wiped his mouth. “We wait.”

  That steamy, bloody day in 1944 when Americans stormed the island of Guam, the moment had come. Seto’s moment of decision. Should he charge back over the mountain and face the US Marines with his rifle and bayonet? Or should he be done with it? He would disembowel himself like a true samurai.

  If he did neither, Seto knew he would shame his family name, bring shame to the emperor and Japan. His head throbbed at this moment of decision. Bile rose in his throat.

  Privates Nakamura and Hayato asked again, “What do we do? The Amerikans are near!”

  Seto listened to the rat-a-tat-tat of guns. He smelled gunpowder and the smoke of cannon shells exploding.

  He trembled inside. Seto decided one thing and one thing only. “I vow never to surrender.”

  CHAPTER 1

  CRAZY TATAN

  GUAM, JANUARY 3, 1972

  Before my grandfather, Tatan Bihu San Nicolas, lost his mind, he called me “Little Turtle.” Ancient Chamorros believed our island was borne on the back of a turtle that settled down in the Mariana Trench. I wanted to believe that “Little Turtle” was my grandfather’s way of saying I was steady, strong like the turtle. He would say the turtle that birthed Guam spit me out onto the beach. Then, in his tough-guy way, Tatan would say, “You no taste good,” and laugh his fool head off.

  Come to think of it, maybe Tatan was crazy before old age robbed his memory.

  I’ve wished I was a turtle for real since my older brother, Samuel Christopher Chargalauf, went off to fight in Vietnam. I wish I could swim from our island of Guam across the Pacific Ocean to Southeast Asia and bring my brother back.

  Sammy being gone is killing my mother. Nana’s brown almond eyes are red-rimmed from crying herself to sleep every night. I know, I hear her through the bedroom wall, sobbing as if she has hiccups that won’t stop. My father stands around looking like he’s in pain most the time. Like someone has a knife twisted in his gut and he’s too stunned to pull it out. Seeing my family falling apart is making me feel as lost as Sammy and as crazy as Tatan.

  But, looking back, if I had to pick a day when my world unraveled, I’m not sure it would be when Sammy left for war, or when Tatan lost his mind.

  No, as horrible as those days were—what I thought of as the worst days of my life—it got worse. It got so bad I didn’t even know
myself. Didn’t know how mean and evil and rotten to the core I could be. How crazy I could get. Crazy enough to want to kill a man.

  It all started like any other day at my family’s tourist shop, Sammy’s Quonset Hut, which is named after my brother. It isn’t really a Quonset building, rather a regular storefront a block from Tumon beach, which is like Waikiki on Oahu where all the tourists stay. My parents were sad and mopey about Sammy being overseas. I admit, I was p.o.ed, too. Christmas break was nearly over. I’d told my buddy, Tomas Tanaka, I would meet him at the beach. But instead I was ramming a dull box cutter back and forth into cardboard. Before my father left with a deposit for the bank, he’d told me I couldn’t go to the beach until the shelves were stocked.

  “If I had the Swiss Army knife Tata gave Sammy, I could open these boxes as easy as slicing mangoes with a machete.” I was sorry I said it the minute it came out of my mouth. It was a good thing my father wasn’t back from the bank yet or else he would have chewed me out for saying such a thing.

  Nana looked up from cleaning a display case. Hurt shone all over her moon-shaped face. “Your tata knew what he was doing. Sammy needs that knife more than you do.”

  Shoving plastic-wrapped seashells on a shelf, I cracked open the top of a wooden crate from the Philippines and choked back coughs. I don’t know what that straw-like packing stuff’s made of, but the smell always makes me cough and my nose run. I pulled it off and reached into the crate.

  Nana let out a pitiful laugh as if she was trying too hard to cheer me up. “Pretty pathetic when we import these.” It wasn’t working. Like I said, I was p.o.ed.

  I held up a coconut decorated like a goofy shrunken native head and grunted. “You talking about coconuts or empty heads?” I chucked my chin toward Tatan, hunched over the counter doing nothing. He used to be tall and thick like an Ifil tree. But it was as if overnight his trunk buckled and branches bent under an invisible weight. My grandfather’s weathered walnut face rarely smiled anymore, his mood always sour.

  I shook the coconut. “We would’ve had this shipment unpacked weeks ago if it weren’t for him.”

  “Hold your tongue.” Nana shook her finger at me. “At fifteen you know everyt’ing? You don’t. I won’t have you disrespect your tatan bihu.”

  Ding, ding, ding. The bell over the door signaled for us to stop, like at the end of a round in boxing. No fighting in front of customers; that was the rule. Put on a plastic smile faker than the plastic Kewpie dolls in hula skirts. Those were made in Taiwan. As if all islands in the Pacific are Hawaiian.

  Two Japanese girls came in. Probably college students on winter break. The girls shuffled up and down the aisles, pawing over souvenirs.

  I had better things to do than watch them. I needed to leave before I opened my mouth again about Tatan not helping. I couldn’t stand to see Nana all doe-eyed and hurt. Couldn’t stand when Tatan yelled at her like a five-year-old. Couldn’t stand it worse when I added my two cents and then everyone was mad at me.

  Best I stock the shelves fast, then I could go body surfing with Tomas. Maybe Daphne would be there, and I could work up the nerve to ask her to go swimming with me. That’d take my mind off everything. Maybe even go reef-walking farther down-coast to catch octopus and sea cucumbers for dinner. Hmm, my stomach growled just thinking about it. If I had that knife, I wouldn’t have to wait for dinner. I could slice up the sea cucumbers and eat them raw.

  Two cases to unload and I’d be on the beach. I was setting up thimbles and silver spoons with Guam’s US territorial seal on the end of the handles when one of the Japanese teens asked, “Where is Sammy?” She giggled. They always do, girls, they giggle behind their hands as if they just made a private joke.

  “What?” Tatan said from behind the counter.

  From where I was crouched I saw the girl in a sky blue bathing suit digging out money from her change purse to pay for a sarong. The other Japanese girl in a black one-piece suit and a straw hat pointed to the sign over the counter, SAMMY’S QUONSET HUT. Personally, I always thought KIKO’S QUONSET HUT had a nicer ring to it. Sammy wasn’t interested in running the store one day anyway.

  “Where’s Sammy?” She giggled again. Any other day and the giggling wouldn’t have gotten on my nerves. Daphne and her girlfriends giggled all the time and it never bothered me. But maybe that’s because I know how smart Daphne is, especially in science class. That’s why it doesn’t bug me when she giggles; Daphne’s not a bubble-head. I must have been extra touchy. Or, maybe that’s just an excuse for how lousy I felt about everything and everyone.

  Nana stepped up to the counter and set down a bucket of vinegar water and crumpled newspapers that she’d been cleaning glass cases with. “Sammy’s my son.” Nana smiled, but so slight the dimple in her left cheek barely showed. “He’s…” She took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and lifted her chin. “Sammy is a navigator for the US Air Force stationed in Vietnam.”

  Everyone knew that meant Sammy was flying missions over enemy territory on a daily basis. At least, I knew it. All I ever heard about was how proud my parents were of my big brother. Nana lived for the day when Sammy’s four-year hitch would be up. He could get out of the military and come home for good. Maybe then there would be no more talk of war, or the fear of death hanging like a storm cloud over our family.

  I knocked down the coconut heads like bowling pins. Shoot, I’d have to do double the work to set them up again.

  The girl who asked about Sammy blushed and bowed her head toward Nana.

  Nana didn’t return the bow. She didn’t so much as nod. She just stood as tall as her short body would stretch. But her smile widened and her dimple creased deep as a crater in her round cheek. Nana moved out from behind the counter and toward the back stock room. She smelled like vinegar when she passed me.

  The girl in the blue swimsuit held out money for the tie-dyed sarong. Tatan rang up the purchase.

  Did he have to look up every price? And look how long it took Tatan. Maybe I should’ve been running the register and he should’ve been stocking shelves.

  The cash register drawer finally popped open. The girl handed Tatan the money. He looked at it, slid it through his fingers into the drawer, and shut the register. She shifted from one foot to the other. She cleared her throat. “Change, please?”

  Tatan glared at her. He opened the drawer and fumbled through the bills and change. He slammed a handful of money back into the drawer, spilled coins onto the floor, and roared, “Damn yen, can’t tell one from another!”

  I dropped a box of ceramic bells and bumped into two crystal clocks. One shattered on the concrete floor. I couldn’t do anything right. All I could think about was how fast could I get out of there.

  Nana scurried toward the counter and apologized to the Japanese girls, while bowing her head and shoulders repeatedly. “I am so sorry. Dozo. My apologies. Dozo.” She gave the girl change. As soon as they left she gripped Tatan’s shoulder. “Go to the Chamorro Café and buy us lunch.” She took a ten-dollar bill out of the register and handed it to Tatan. “Please.” Her doe eyes pleaded with him.

  I busied myself sweeping up the broken glass. I better let Nana handle Tatan. After all, he was her father, and she’d always been his favorite. Tatan shoved the money in his pants pocket and stormed out of the shop.

  After he left, I couldn’t hold back. “Those weren’t even yen, just regular American money.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I told you Tatan has lytico-bodig. I explained how the dementia would make him act—how he’d start doing strange t’ings. Can’t you be patient with him?”

  I stared at Nana. Me be patient with him? He was the one exploding like a volcano.

  “Go to the storeroom and finish opening those shipments from the Philippines. When you’re done, you can dust, too.”

  “It’s not fair. Tatan throws a fit and I get punished. I’ll never get out of here.”

  Nana sighed, as if too tired to say more. She picked up the vinega
r bucket and crumpled papers and began cleaning the glass cases again.

  I went to the storeroom and opened crates filled with straw mats, beach bags, and T-shirts. After a while I got hungry, and bored. Where was Tatan with the food? Maybe he forgot his way back. I swooped a feather duster in airplane motions until someone opened the screen door. I whipped around, expecting to see Tatan holding a Styrofoam container with our lunch. The sun blazed behind the person and blocked out his features. Still, I could tell it wasn’t Tatan because the man had a shorter, leaner figure, like Sammy’s. It was like seeing a ghost, which really spooked me, thinking Sammy had just stepped through the back screen door. But then Tomas’s voice said, “Hey, Kiko, you free to go to the beach?”

  I tossed the duster on a shelf. Once outside I could see the guy was my best bud, Tomas, whose Japanese body is small and wiry like Sammy’s. “How come you not working today?” I asked.

  “Vacation’s almost over, bro. Didn’t t’ink I’d be working the ranch when I could be here with you checking out the chicks in bikinis,” Tomas said. “Besides, I slopped our sows earlier. When you weren’t around to play baseball I knew you were working and needed rescued.”

  “Rescued is right.” I’d slopped our pig in the morn and then worked all day at the shop. “I’m wheezing from this dust. Let’s go catch some rays, waves, and babes. If I stick around until Tatan comes back, my folks will have me babysitting him next.”

  We took off to Tumon beach. Tomas thrust his chin in the direction of two white women in string bikinis sunbathing on straw mats. “Whoa.” He flicked his wrist, making his hand shake as if playing a tambourine. “Lookie at those!”

  The white women didn’t interest me. I had a crush on Daphne DeLeon, a Chamorrita from school. But I hadn’t told anyone yet, not even Tomas, and especially not Daphne.

  “Better not look too hard,” I said. “Probably military wives. And when those Uncle Sams catch you, they going to punch your nose until your eyes can’t see no more.” That wouldn’t take much either, since Tomas’s Japanese eyes disappear when he squints against the glare of the sun.