Dorothy’s heart leapt at the thought. They were intended to get one relief box per prisoner per month, but to date no person in camp had ever seen one. Was it possible they were actually on their way?
Santo Tomás Internment Camp
Limited Private Edition - Frederic H. Stevens
© 1946 - page 422-426
Nov. 5 — Teia Maru [French ship formerly known as the Aramis seized by Japanese and renamed] bringing in relief supplies, medicines, and mail due tomorrow on return from Goa.
Nov. 10 — From official minutes: “Contrary to the original understanding. . . the Japanese military have been withdrawing considerable quantities of these (Red Cross) supplies both direct from the piers and also from the warehouses, with the stated intention of storing same for distribution among war prisoners. In particular, the indications are that a large proportion of the medical and surgical supplies and shoes have been withdrawn, together with a little less than half of the comfort kits . . . .
Nov. 30 — Red Cross Relief kits from Teia Maru come into Camp for storage until examined and approved for distribution.
Dec. 16 — Special meeting of Executive Committee hastily called to consider too rigorous inspection of Red Cross relief kits received in Camp on November 30. Fifteen Japanese military inspectors open all kits, remove all cigarettes (due to unacceptable printing on one of the brands), take out and examine contents of kits, open some cans and damage two kits beyond repair. Verbal protest at once made to Commandant, followed by written protest to be sent to Swiss Minister in Tokyo.
Eight hundred kits given out to internees today. Daily deliveries to continue until Camp distribution completed.
“You’re serious?”
“Absolutely positively!” Jeanne could hardly contain herself. “My dad and brother and Mr. Chambers and a bunch of fellows were assigned to go to some dock and load relief boxes onto trucks this morning. I cannot wait! What do you suppose is in them?”
“Oh my.”
This was stunning news.
“Protein, please. Plenty of protein.”
. . . .
The next thirty days were torture. The entire camp waited with bated breath for the relief boxes, but by the first week of December the kits had still not been dispensed.
There would be tins of potted meat, some said. Others felt they’d be full of army k-rations, but who cared. If it was good enough for their boys, it was good enough for them. Others scoffed. It was just another rumor, they said.
But Fred had carried them into the trucks with his own hands. He knew they were real. Whether the Japanese would actually release them to the internees was impossible to know.
To dispel some of the tension caused by waiting for the comfort kits to appear, the Camp Committee accepted a challenge from the Japanese officers. They would suspend anything other than necessary work details for a day and meet one another on the baseball diamond.
Internees began a feverish round of betting. Foolish stakes of entire comfort kits were waged. Most bet that the STICS—Santo Tomás Internment Camp team—would crush the Japs.
Fred was hesitant to play, but joined the team anyway. He was their best shortstop. They needed him, they said.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Dorothy had sighed. “It’s too much running. Besides, you know you’ll win and the Japanese are not going to take that well. Not well at all.”
“Exactly,” Fred had countered. “And that’s why I have to play, even though I know our boys are going to raise holy ned when I suddenly get very, very clumsy.”
“Clumsy? You?” Dorothy raised her eyebrows, then turned to him with stunning realization. “You’re going to throw the game.”
“We have to, darling girl. No choice there, I’m afraid.
Beating the Japanese was the very last thing they could afford to do. The only possible end to this game was a clear Japanese victory or the entire camp would suffer. And the best way he could help secure that outcome was to be on the field.
. . . .
Game day arrived, every bit as hot and humid as every day that had preceded it. Straws were drawn and the Santo Tomás team drew first ‘at bat’. Things got off to a shaky start until Corbett Conklin hit a home run. The spectators cheered feverishly for the scrawny boy as he loped around the bases, bringing in another runner. It was an auspicious start.
Fred grimaced and shook his head when Corbett shrugged his shoulders, as if admitting he’d done just the opposite of what Fred had counseled him to do. The kid had agreed to help throw the game. But his grin proved he hadn’t been able to resist showing off.
As whispered suggestions to tone it down filtered through the crowd, the cheering died rapidly. It wouldn’t do to celebrate a victory over the Japanese. Not unless they wanted a cut in rations. Or double work for the week. The Japanese officers seemed to know the things that were coveted by the majority of interns, and those would be the first things restricted if they felt the need to retaliate.
Fred got the team into a huddle.
“We all know we’ll clobber them,” he said. “But the only way to end this day is a Japanese victory dance.” He looked them each in the eye until their expressions showed they understood.
The huddle broke and the team’s next batter stepped into the box.
The crowd murmured quietly as the much-hated Lieutenant Abiko took the pitcher’s mound for the Japanese. He taunted the crowd, who knew enough now not to take the bait. There were no catcalls. No derisive sounds. No indication of any kind that the wiry officer was getting their goat.
But Abiko would not give up so easily. He seemed intent upon giving them a show. With a sly grin he put the baseball on the ground, exaggerating his movements so everyone would see what he was doing. In a series of great, sweeping motions he reached into his sleeves and pulled something out. Then another and another.
And after a comical wind-up that at last had the crowd snickering, he began to juggle.
With eggs.
The crowd gasped.
Eggs.
How could he be so careless with an egg? With three eggs?
It was horrendous. The Japanese team laughed and crowed as Abiko sent the eggs higher and higher until at last he exceeded his own abilities and the eggs eluded his hands.
Splat.
Splat.
Splat.
“Strike one-two-three you out!” Abiko yelled with glee.
The STICS were dumb-struck. Many of them had not been able to get their hands on an egg for months, or if they had, it had come at a high cost. Salt could be had for $25 per pound on the camp’s black market. Fred knew of a woman who had traded a fine quality engagement ring for eight pounds of rice. Loans could be had at exorbitant interest. By 1944 a $1,000 check would garner $30 in cash. Japanese guards eagerly traded small quantities of food for jewelry, stealing pride, sentiment, and family history in one swift exchange.
But eggs? Priceless.
Corbett Conklin began walking slowly to third base as the Japanese team danced toward home plate. The STIC team had not played their third batter, but it was clear Abiko considered his egg joke to have turned the game. He could cheat all he wanted, and the STIC team could do absolutely nothing about it.
Fred headed out to take his position at shortstop. He watched the boy, taking in the sudden change in his demeanor as Corbett scuffed each foot angrily. The egg incident had triggered something in Corbett. He was brooding, casting hooded looks at the Japanese team.
The Japanese were terrible at the game and their first two batters went down one after the other, no matter how easily the STIC pitcher lobbed the ball.
Their incompetence didn’t seem to assuage Corbett’s angst. He stood straight up, pounding his fist into the palm of his hand.
Third to bat was Lieutenant Abiko, but when he took his place in the batter’s box he reached once again into his sleeve. Fred watched as the next move seemed to play out in slow motion. Yo
shi drew an egg from his sleeve and tossed it high. It tumbled as it rose, higher and higher. Yoshi’s gleeful grin seemed almost diabolical as he raised his bat and swung with the flailing motion of a very bad strike.
Corbett’s eyes followed the bat’s path as the prancing officer laughed and kicked dust toward the STIC team.
The egg landed in the center of home plate and shattered.
From the corner of his eye, Fred registered the cruel antics in the batter’s box. But his eyes were fixed on Corbett, and the moment the crazed look broke on the boy’s face, Fred took off running.
Corbett crouched, then dug his toes in and launched himself for home base. He was going to tackle the Japanese officer.
No, he was going to kill him.
Fred dug in harder and ran for his life. He had the angle on Corbett, and halfway between third base and home plate, Fred tackled the boy. They tumbled to the dirt and rolled over and over. Fred’s shoulders scraped across the pebbled ground. His hips recorded every bruise.
Corbett raged. His dilated eyes looked as savage as the gibberish he was screaming. His fists pummeled Fred until two of the team pulled him off.
Fred scrambled to his feet and somehow dragged the frenzied boy from the field. Once out of sight of the others, they collapsed to the ground.
The boy gasped. Long, wrenching gasps. He dredged them up from the very pit of his soul, and then broke into desperate, heaving sobs.
Fred cradled Corbett and let the violent tremors shake loose all the memories the boy had denied for months.
Behind them, the game resumed as if nothing had happened. As if a boy had not just made a journey beyond himself and found his world to be even more cruel than he’d thought it to be.
. . . .
“I’ve never known someone so utterly devastated, so...so ripped from his foundation.”
Fred sat with Dorothy, their foreheads touching, knees interlocked, hands clasped together in a pose they’d used for years when approaching prayer.
“I couldn’t prepare you, Fred. I wanted to. But I promised his...I promised Mrs. Conklin I would keep Corbett’s secret. But if I’d known—”
“I know, darling. You told me enough, though, and I understand it all now. Witnessing the killing was unimaginable trauma for that poor boy. It was just so terrible when he started to remember...so terrible the way he began to describe things he saw in that street, with his father...his mother... the way each word tore itself from him. It was so physical, so desperate, so...I don’t know. So excruciatingly mournful.”
Images of the boy’s soul-searing crisis began to churn in Fred’s mind and set him rocking. Together they swayed, expanding the boundaries of their undividedness as if stillness could not hope to contain the magnitude of the experience.
“He was so exhausted. But then...he just kept muttering the same thing. Over and over and over.”
Dorothy lifted their joined hands and kissed her husband’s knuckles. She slid her arms around his neck and he clasped his hands behind hers.
“What did he say?”
“What?”
“Over and over. What did he say?”
Fred sighed. “Oh. Just...it didn’t really make sense.”
“What did he say,” Dorothy prompted, although she knew it would be just two words.
“He just kept staring into the distance and muttering... ‘Say something’.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
THE BAMBOO TELEGRAPH
As prisoners of war, Dorothy and Fred—like everyone in Santo Tomás— lived by the charity of the open-hearted Filipinos. Many relied on bundles left for them at the package shed by former Filipino employees, or small offerings hoisted over the prison walls in remote corners of the campus compound. These gifts had to have come at great sacrifice for many, as conditions in Manila were dire.
Dorothy and Fred had no friendly network among the Filipinos of Manila. But the bamboo telegraph stretched across the islands, and in some indefinable way, word traveled from village to farm, from guerilla to tradesman, that there were missionaries without resources in Santo Tomás. And now and then an anonymous package had shown up at the package shed marked for delivery to the Chambers family. They were rare, they were unexpected, and they were life-saving. With the permanent closing of the package shed, the loss of that source of food was devastating.
Yet, while foodstuffs sustained their bodies—minimally—it was news that kept them all for the most part sane. And somehow the news kept trickling in, no matter how stubbornly the Japanese tried to isolate them.
News came by way of the bamboo telegraph. It might be a small note someone received, rolled around a few pesos and stuffed inside a chicken bone, or a few cryptic words sung in passing. But it was news, and everyone in camp craved it. And passed it on. And within minutes news would transform into rumor and it became impossible to know what was real news and what was wishful thinking. And yet the camp would cling to it as if it came directly from God or General MacArthur.
It was frightfully true that if you were found receiving communications from outside the formidable fences of Santo Tomás, the punishment would be horrific.
Yet still the news came.
It was impossible to keep the Japanese from knowing that news had come into the camp, and it drove them crazy. The camp tempo, indeed the entire camp personality, changed when news was received.
Radios were forbidden, but that had not kept an enterprising internee from building one—right under the noses of their captors. Each time a significant victory by the Americans seemed to be celebrated in camp, the Japanese made a mad search of each bed and box, every bundle and bag, determined to find the guilty party who harbored it. But Tom Poole’s precious homemade radio would elude the Japanese for the entire war.
On a late Saturday afternoon in December of 1943, Dorothy sat with Fred on a blanket he’d spread on a ratty spot of ground cover that was halfway dry. The large tin can he’d rigged over a skimpy bed of charcoal was heating up nicely. Earlier in the day a package containing fresh heart had appeared on Dorothy’s desk at the hospital. The exact variety of the donor was difficult to tell—too small for a dog, too big for a chicken, and the pigeons had gone missing from the roof of the Main Building several months ago—but it was fresh. She would cook it, shred it, and make a gravy of it. The children would be over the moon having gravy on their rice. And it was better than a tonic for Carol.
The Red Cross comfort kits that had been hauled into camp two weeks ago still had not been distributed. Rumor had it that the Japanese guards weren’t done opening the boxes and taking what they wanted. It was all the camp committee could do to keep some of the camp hotheads from actually rioting. But to Dorothy’s mind, it would be an awfully short riot, what with the depleted energy of most internees.
Fred had practically swooned telling her all the foods he’d seen in one of the comfort kits that had fallen open. The Klim powdered milk alone would be manna from heaven.
Dorothy poked the coals to encourage the flame.
She hadn’t told Fred yet that she was worried about Carol. She’d examined the child thoroughly and had turned up nothing, but it couldn’t quiet Dorothy’s fear that some malady was preparing to rear its ugly head.
By the time the heart was sputtering on the makeshift tramp’s stove, the camp loudspeaker began to sputter to life.
“My friends, in a moment we’ll begin our evening’s entertainment, but first, a word from our host.”
The loudspeaker crackled again and the harsh voice of the camp commandant, Mr. Kodaki, shattered the ears of internees in every corner of the camp. Speakers wired to trees throughout the campus made certain that no internee could miss any directives delivered by their Imperial guardians.
Dorothy groaned. “What infraction will he scold us about tonight, do you suppose?”
Fred chuckled. “Pay no mind, my dear. Life will go on as it has whether Kodaki likes it or not. If the A
mericans have made inroads in retaking the islands we’ll get our ears boxed. If the Japanese have taken another flyspeck in the ocean, we’ll get a treat on Sunday. Life will be as it always has been here, ruled by the Japanese tit for tat.”
Excerpt from Manila Goodbye by Robin Prising
© 1975 by Robin Prising. pp 120
No one could escape from the loudspeaker. It reached the farthest corners of the camp and governed our action through the day. At sunrise it would burst out as the needle struck the groove of a worn recording, often of a trio of girls crooning ‘Good Morning’, which played so loudly that the words were indistinct. Then, like the staccato rasps of Hitler played backwards, came the Nipponese blasting orders to their sentries. An American voice followed, a radio voice washed in soapsuds, bubbling with folksy familiarity as it gave us our orders for the day. At ten- or twenty-minute intervals the LOUDSPEAKER would switch suddenly on, ordering someone to report to the commandant’s office, repeating the order, giving instructions to labor squads, repeating the instructions, paging doctors and telling mothers to fetch their children from begging the Japanese soldiers for food.
Apparently this time life had ‘crossed a line’ and Kodaki saw fit to punish the entire camp. As of this week the last Japanese food vendors would be banished from Santo Tomás.
The prospect of losing the Japanese vendors was met with mixed emotions. There would be no more of the coveted items like peanut butter. But those in camp who couldn’t afford it anyway would never miss it. If only peanuts could be had, Dorothy could make her own peanut butter.
If only.
Kodaki’s droning voice was finally silenced and the always-too-cheerful Voice of the Philippines Don Bell—whose real name was Clarence Alten Beliel, Sr.—took over the microphone.
Dorothy listened to his announcements with half an ear, then looked up with a start.
“F. C. Chambers? Who is that?”
“Me, darling. He must have misspoken, and meant to say F. R. Chambers. I’ve been elected by the camp parents’ group to represent them on education matters in the Camp Committee.”
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