No Surrender Soldier

by Christine Kohler

  Nana patted his arm. “It can wait.” She kissed his cheek.

  By Thursday night Tatan seemed to have slipped back into his stupor, but by Friday he rose before the sun, banging pots and pans, wanting to cook breakfast. I believe he would have, too, if he only knew where Nana hid the stove knobs.

  By Sunday I could tell Tatan’s mood medicine kicked in plenty good.

  “Tatan’s riding high on that ‘purple mushroom’ he’s taking, eh?” I kidded Nana.

  “Don’t you be making fun of Tatan.” She shook a spatula at me. “Besides, doc says his good moods wouldn’t last, so enjoy it now before he takes another turn for the worse.”

  Tata convinced her they had to skip Mass and work at the Quonset Hut. “Bills are piled high and inventory’s backed up.”

  I actually wanted to stock shelves to help out. But knew I was helping more by being at home looking out for Tatan. Nana didn’t need to fret much about him, what with all the worrying she was doing about Sammy.

  “We’ll miss Mass just this once,” Tata said. “Or we’ll start going Saturday night at the basilica in Agana on our way home from work.”

  That was fine with me. I didn’t feel like going to Mass lately. Except I missed seeing Daphne, watching her say the rosary. I did get to see her on Friday nights when I went to Catechism. But the closer it got to Confirmation, I felt more and more… dirty. No, what did the priest call it? Unworthy. That must be what I felt. I couldn’t explain it any other way.

  By one o’clock I guessed Tomas must be home from church so I called and asked him over for a game of baseball.

  “You sure you want me over there, bro? How’s Tatan?”

  “Sure, I’m sure,” I said, snaking the phone cord around my hand. “Tatan’s fine. In fact, he’s great! Doc’s got him high on some mood elevator. He’s buzzing better than if he chewed betel nut sliced with lime.”

  “Humph. Like you’d know.”

  Tomas arrived with his bat and a big basket of food his nana insisted he bring. “So you boys don’t eat everyt’ing at Roselina’s and make that poor woman have to cook tonight,” Tomas said, imitating Missus Tanaka’s voice.

  Tatan cracked jokes that would have been funny if they weren’t so old I’d heard them millions of times. Tomas laughed though. Bobo even picked up on Tatan’s “elevated” mood and scampered around like a young pup.

  “Come on, let’s get Tatan to play ball with us.” I smacked Sammy’s baseball into my glove. “That way we can keep him happy and out of trouble.”

  We had the best game going since forever. I reveled in the cool ocean breeze and light shower that misted me down after working up a sweat running bases.

  Tatan and Bobo were a sight. Tatan bunted and Bobo chased balls in the outfield. It wasn’t real clear whose team they were on—mine or Tomas’s—but I didn’t care. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had such fun together.

  “And it’s a bunt to the infield,” Tomas said in his sportscaster’s voice, as Tatan trotted to first base.

  “You know, bunts aren’t so bad. Better to stay out of the boonies that way.”

  “What?” Tomas said. “You afraid of power-hitter Tanaka?”

  “Afraid? Me? No way, man. Pla-a-a-y ball!” I wound up a pitch. I looked left to see Tatan standing between first and second. I pretended to throw the ball at Tatan to get him out. Which was a joke since no one but Bobo was there to retrieve the ball.

  Tatan ran back to first. “Ha. Ha! Can’t get me. I’m safe!” he shouted.

  Tomas called, “Bobo! Go deep!” Bobo barked and skipped in circles in the infield.

  I wound up my arm again. I pitched square across the plate.

  Tomas swung the bat from above shoulder to chest. Cra-ack. He followed through.

  The ball sped a line drive past the pitcher’s mound and straight for the river. I dove to keep from getting hit. Bobo’s nose followed its path, and he took off running. Tatan slow-ran around the bases, making sure he touched every one.

  I got up, dusted myself off, and ran toward the boonies.

  “And it’s a home run!” Tomas said, sportscaster style.

  Tatan rounded second base.

  I chased Bobo into the boonies. I searched near the river.

  No ball.

  Bobo must have picked up a scent because he followed a trail upstream.

  I followed deeper into the underbrush, knowing Tomas hit this one farther than ever before. Muffled by the distance and boonies, Tomas’s voice was calling for me. I paused only long enough to yell back, “It’s Sammy’s ball! I have to find Sammy’s ball!”

  It sounded as if Tomas said, “He’ll understand. Come back. We’ll get another one.”

  I didn’t want another ball. No other ball would do. I didn’t want a hundred new balls. I wanted this baseball. Sammy gave me it to me. What if I never saw him again and this was the last thing he gave me?

  Deeper and deeper into the dense boonies, Bobo and I searched. I looked for traces of mashed down plants, or any sign that a ball had whizzed through the foliage. It didn’t help that Bobo did his own mashing and breaking of ferns and limbs.

  I passed a banyan tree. I decided it would be a waste of daylight to climb it. I passed where I’d seen the dead snake. All that sat there was a rock. I passed the place where I remembered a man’s footprint had been. I looked again to see if my eyes, or the taotaomona spirits, had played tricks on me. Maybe. There was no snake, no footprint today.

  Bobo veered away from the river and barked at something he pawed at in the dirt. Maybe he found Sammy’s baseball.

  “Fetch it, Bobo!” I whistled. “Bring it here, boy!”

  Maybe the ball was stuck. Or it wasn’t Sammy’s ball after all. Maybe he’d cornered an animal instead.

  Either way, I needed to get Bobo and head back. Daylight was gone. I’d have to wait until tomorrow to search again.

  I’ll look every day until I find it, Sammy. Every day until you come home.

  “Bobo.” My dog glanced up for only a second then resumed scratching.

  I trampled through the underbrush to some bamboo stalks seemingly set apart in a tiny forestland of their own. I looked down to see what Bobo was scratching at under fallen bamboo leaves scattered on the jungle floor.

  “What the… no animal made this.” I reached for the bamboo mat tied together with coarse rope. I stopped. Better not. I left it alone.

  “Bobo, no!” I hissed, trying to keep my voice low. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I grabbed Bobo by the scruff of his neck and pulled him away from the handmade mat. Bobo kept his head up, and sniffed and bobbed his neck from side to side, as I dragged him away from the inhabited area. Bobo reared up on hind legs, growled, and bared his teeth. I’d never seen him like this before.

  I spun around and saw something. What was it? A man? He looked… wild… dirty… hunched. A stench reeked through the air, not like anything I’d smelled before.

  Bobo lunged and broke from my grasp. “Bobo, no,” I called. “Come!”

  I watched thrashing in the impenetrable brush. Bobo’s barking turned to yelping, then snarling, then high-pitched yip, yip-yips.

  I plunged into the thicket, not caring that the underbrush cut my legs. “Bobo!” I shouted. “Bobo!”

  I found Bobo lying in the brush, blood soaking his belly. I rushed to see if he was still alive. Bobo panted hard in between deep throaty moans. I stood up and looked in every direction. What monster would do this to my dog? I couldn’t imagine anyone I knew on Guam, no matter how mean, hurting a dog. But this wasn’t an animal attack. My blood boiled and I wanted to punch someone or something. I twisted in circles, searching, searching, for who did this.

  No one. No sign, except for Bobo bleeding.

  “Let’s get you home, Bobo.” I cradled my dog in my arms and carried him out of the brambles and brush, past palms, banyan, and breadfruit trees, along the Talofofo tributary until we were well into the clearing where Tomas and
Tatan waited for us in the dark.

  “How’d this happen?” Tomas called and ran toward me.

  “Bobo’s hurt. Let’s get him back to the house and see how bad.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell about the wild man in the boonies until I sorted things out for myself.

  Tomas rubbed Bobo behind his ears, which drooped down. He whimpered.

  “Got your ball?” Tatan asked.

  I shook my head “no,” then nuzzled my face into Bobo’s neck.

  No one talked as we walked back to the house. I was relieved my parents weren’t home yet. I laid Bobo on the kitchen floor and asked Tomas to fetch rags. Tatan got a drink of water and went into the living room and turned on the TV.

  I carefully dabbed reddish-brown blood from Bobo’s yellow fur. “It’s not that Tatan doesn’t care about Bobo.”

  “It’s his sickness, maybe the medicine, eh?” Tomas said, more as a question.

  I told myself if I concentrated on Bobo, I could push the anger down inside somewhere, deal with it later. Bobo needed me more at that moment. Tomas kept staring toward the living room, looking at Tatan watching TV, as if nothing happened. I cleared my throat. “I don’t even know if he understands about Sammy… being lost and all.”

  Tomas chucked his chin. I went back to washing Bobo with a rag, being as gentle as I could not to hurt him.

  Bobo licked his ribs. Once the blood was cleaned from his fur, Tomas and I inspected a deep gash under his ribcage.

  “What would have caused that?” Tomas asked. “Looks like it’s punctured.”

  I didn’t say anything. I wondered if I hadn’t gotten there in time, would the man have killed Bobo?

  I knew then for sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that what I had seen was not a taotaomona spirit playing tricks on me.

  I had seen, with my own eyes, a real, live man.

  The gaunt, stooped-shouldered walking skeleton with a sunken face and hollow, dark eyes had to be a Japanese straggler stalking the boonies not far from our house.

  I shook thinking about it. What if I’d been all alone, or Bobo, or Tatan? What would the straggler have done to any one of us?

  I went to the bathroom to find some medicine. I poured peroxide into Bobo’s wound. He yelped and nipped at his sore. I spread thick ointment on the cut, then wrapped and tied my gray T-shirt around Bobo to stop the bleeding.

  “Let’s get Bobo to the shed,” I told Tomas. “Nana will pitch a fit if she finds him in the house.”

  I carried Bobo and Tomas took rags and old towels I didn’t think Nana would miss. There was another reason I wanted Bobo in the shed. I didn’t want Tata and Nana to ask questions. Not tonight. I had to think this through. I was so angry I couldn’t stop shaking. My heart was still thumping, as if I had run a marathon around the island.

  While Tomas helped me fix a bed of towels and rags for Bobo, headlights shone through the tool shed window. I grabbed Tomas’s arm. “Don’t tell anyone what happened!”

  Tomas looked like a deer stunned by car lights.

  I relaxed my grip. “I’ll tell them later.”

  Tomas nodded.

  “I better get home before I’m grounded for being out too late.” Tomas jumped up and opened the shed door.

  “No!” I practically shouted. “Wait for my tata to drive you home.”

  He cocked one shoulder and gave me a what’s-the-big-deal? look, then started out the door.

  I bolted toward our car, waved my arms, and shouted, “Tata! Tata! Take Tomas home. He shouldn’t be out after dark.”

  Tomas gave me a strange look, as if I’d lost more than a baseball in the boonies. “Eh? I’m no baby. I see myself home after dark lots.”

  “No! Tata, drive him home. Please! I’ll go with you.”

  Nana climbed out of the passenger seat. She looked tired. Tata stuck his head out of the car window. “No problem. Come on, Tomas. I’ll drive you.”

  Nana patted Tomas’s cheek. “Tell your nana si yu’us ma’ase for me.”

  “Will do, ma’am. I’ll t’ank her for you,” he said, then headed for the car.

  I was halfway in the car when I hollered to Nana, “Lock the doors. We’ll be back shortly.”

  Tata and Tomas looked at each other and scrunched their eyebrows. No one on Guam locked doors. How could I explain this?

  On the way home from Tomas’s house, Tata asked me, “Son, is there somet’ing you want to tell me?”

  I wanted to talk to my tata about so many things. Words had dammed up inside of me for too long and I was angry and scared and confused. But instead of spilling about the straggler in the boonies who stabbed Bobo, I blurted out, “I know I look like Tihu Tony, but who does Sammy take after?”

  Tata’s head jerked toward me and he glared. “Who you t’ink he takes after?” Tata exploded like a volcano. “Me! Me!” He thumped his chest like a drum. “I’m his tata!”

  My heartbeat speeded up so fast I thought it was going to explode like a grenade, if my head didn’t first. I wished I could take back my words.

  “Don’t you ever question again who Sammy’s father is. Not to me, not to Sammy, and especially…” Spit flew. “… don’t you dare ever say anyt’ing to your nana. She’s been through enough hell without you giving her more grief.”

  Grief. That’s what I was giving them. That’s why I couldn’t tell them anything. I buried my big mouth into my fist and leaned my splitting headache against the cool side window.

  Tata drove up the dirt roadway and parked. I waited until Tata stomped into the house before I peeked through the shed door at Bobo. He was asleep. Once in the house I locked the outside doors and went straight to bed. But instead of stripping down to my underwear I laid still beneath my sheet, fully dressed in shorts and T-shirt.

  What if I had to get up in a hurry?

  Thoughts ran through my brain faster than a school of manahac in spawning season.

  How long had the straggler been there?

  What was under that bamboo mat staked to the ground?

  What would the man do now that he knew I knew about his location?

  Did he know where I lived?

  Those were the questions that bothered me first. Curiosity questions. Fear questions. Self-preservation questions.

  Then came the “what if” questions. Questions of conscience.

  What if I told?

  Who could I tell? Humph. See if I’d ever talk to Tata again.

  What if Tatan found out?… He’d kill that Japanese soldier.

  . . . What if I killed the soldier first?

  Who would know? I could get Tatan’s machete and gun, and sneak into the boonies without anyone looking. I knew where he was hiding. It would be easy. I’d find the Japanese soldier, surprise him, kill him, and drag his body deeper into the jungle. No one would know.

  If someone found the body later, no one would know it was me who killed him.

  No one would know who the man was. Probably not even in Japan. If his family wasn’t dead already, surely they’d given up hope. He’d been missing forever. There was probably a clipboard somewhere in Japan, maybe at the emperor’s palace, or in some dusty filing cabinet. But there it was, an old brown clipboard with a rusted clasp holding together a yellowed paper that had this soldier’s name under M.I.A.—Missing In Action—or whatever they called it in Japanese.

  No one would care. Surely his family had all given up on him ever being alive or coming home.

  CHAPTER 20

  STRAGGLER

  JANUARY 23, 1972

  Seto cowered in his cave. His hands clutched a hard mud-covered object.

  Seto had been delighted earlier to catch a coconut crab. A crab big enough for a feast! Big enough to stop the nip, nip, nipping of hunger in his belly. Hai, Seto was truly delighted. Carefully holding his knife and crab away from his bare flesh, Seto practically skipped like a school-boy back to the bamboo thicket that concealed his tunnel.

  Something whizzed past him. Seto threw his arms over hi
s head and ducked to the ground. He listened for gunfire. Instead he heard scratching on the jungle floor. His crab! It’d scurried away.

  Seto retrieved his knife and searched beneath leaves, branches, brambles for the coconut crab. A round object, much smaller than the crab that got away, caught his eye. He squinted closer. Ah, could it be? This far into the jungle? Seto bent and picked up the muddy thing. A different type of delight quickened within his chest. A warm feeling covered his heart and spread to his face. His eyes rained tears. A piece of home nestled in his hands. He clutched a baseball.

  He took a step toward the river to wash off mud. Tonight luck smiled upon him. Maybe she would give him another crab. He would look among trees and leaves.

  Something much bigger than a crab rustled behind him. A distant voice called, “Bobo!”

  No time to waste. Seto rushed toward his cave.

  Too late. A wild animal growled. A boy yelled, “Bobo, no!”

  A golden dog lunged through brush. His teeth threatened to rip Seto’s throat. Or at least he thought the dog might do so. He’d seen rabid dogs in China attack and tear a man apart.

  Seto stabbed the dog and ripped his knife downward like gutting a deer. But he had not pushed the knife in deep enough. Only enough to wound the animal.

  Quick. Quick. Boy is coming, his thoughts screamed.

  Seto ran. He’d circled back to his cave once he was sure the boy had left.

  As he cowered in his cave his heart beat loud against his chest, and muscles in his arm strained against his hand squeezing the baseball. He was afraid to let go. He had already lost his dinner. He did not want to lose his memory of childhood.

  Aiee. The boy had seen him. It was the native boy Seto did not kill before. If only the dog had not barked.

  Why did Seto not kill the dog and drag it back to his lair before the boy came for it?

  I am as slow and weak as the snails I eat, Seto lamented, hammering the baseball against his mouth. Dog would have filled his belly plenty.

  Would the native boy and old man and golden dog with big teeth be waiting to kill or capture me? Seto wondered as he rubbed mud off the baseball. I should have finished them off, then they would not be a threat.