Courage in a White Coat

by Mary Schwaner

  Bobby continued to work on his drawing. He’d found a rock that worked like a piece of chalk and now the floor of their tiny space was covered in smudged sketches.

  “What kind of plane is that?” she asked, relishing a quiet moment to drink in the sight of her clever, talented, winsome son as he sketched on the floor.

  “It’s the kind we saw this morning.”

  “Bobby!” Her heart stuttered at the thought of her little platinum-headed bundle standing in the courtyard gazing up at the aircraft. “You know you weren’t supposed to be watching!”

  That was the trouble with entrusting her children to the care of others while she was at the clinic. They thought Bobby was a perfect, sweet, angelic child who would never, ever, consider breaking a rule.

  “It’s okay, Mom.” He sounded so grown up, trying to reassure her that his lapse was insignificant. “I stayed under a rubber plant the whole time. Nobody see’d me.”

  “That’s no kind of shelter, young man. You are to be indoors! Rules are there for a reason, and I expect you to follow them, even when I’m not here. Especially when I’m not here. I need to know that you’re staying safe.”

  Bobby thought about that for a moment. She must be losing her touch, because he wasn’t even chagrined by her scolding.

  And then he lobbed his arrow.

  “Maybe you could quit being the doctor and just be the Mom. Then you could be here to remember me the rules.”

  It cut to the quick. The hardest things Dorothy ever had to hear usually came from the mouths of her babies. Bobby had no idea what he’d said. In his own way, it was a compliment. He wished for more time with his mother.

  But it bruised her to the core, nevertheless.

  She sat down on the floor beside him, struggling to get down now that her beriberi had taken ownership of her ankles and her bones hurt all the time. She fingered his pure white hair while he was drawing.

  “Bobby?” she asked quietly. “What did you say they call this airplane again?”

  “It’s a B-24, Mom. A Libator.”

  “A Libator?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Dorothy leaned across him to look more closely at the sketch. He was right. It was a B-24.

  The Liberator.

  Bobby was inscribing on the floor a perfect image of the planes that had so profoundly moved her just hours earlier. It was a perfect image, drawn by the smiling boy who’d never known freedom, yet somehow knew the harbinger of freedom when he saw it. It should be a monument to the child’s innate knowledge that in those winged chariots were men who would show him for the first time what freedom looked like. Smelled like. Tasted like. It should be etched in stone, mounted on the walls for all to see.

  But it had been sketched on the floor for all of ten minutes now. Too long. It could never be seen. Not by anyone, lest they feel the necessity to tattle. And so she had to break her little son’s heart just a bit and help him scuff away his drawings.

  He smiled up at her.

  “It’s okay, Mom. I got another one.”

  Dorothy gulped. “What...another one? Where? We’ll need to make it disappear too, you know.”

  “Can people do that?” His little blue eyes were wide with wonder.

  “Well, that depends. Where exactly is this other plane?”

  Bobby gave her a roguish smile.

  And pointed to his forehead.

  The other plane was already safely stowed.

  In his brain.

  We Band of Angels

  by Elizabeth M. Norman

  The malnutrition led to a variety of ailments: neuritic pain (inflammation of the nerves), parasthesias (numbness in the hands and feet), ocular pain (sharp ache in the eyeballs and blurred sight or double vision), pellagra (raised red spots on the skin that eventually become dry and scaly, and bleed), ariboflavinosis (sores on the lips and a red and swollen tongue) and anemia (reduced red blood cells causing extreme fatigue and weakness). The lack of proteins and vitamins led to small epidemics of measles, whooping cough, bacillary dysentery, and left almost everyone else dizzy with headaches.

  We lived on the second floor of Main Building. We had a stairway to the second floor and the stairs were on two levels. You went up, say, six steps, then there was a landing, then you had another eight steps to go. Well, it got to the point where you had all you can do to make the first set of stairs when you discover that you have to sit down and take a breather before you take on the next set of stairs. They had to make benches and put them there on the landing [so people could rest]. The writing was on the wall.

  …starvation is a slow assault on the body, an inexorable attack. Every day brings with it some small loss of function, and with each loss, each violation, the victim seems smaller, somehow less human than the day before.

  “I’d wake up in the morning and when I’d stand up I’d start urinating [on myself],” said Sally Blaine. “It was absolutely so embarrassing, it was terrible. Some of the girls really flooded themselves in front of other people. Josie went to the camp central committee and she told them we’ve got to have more meat for these girls.”

  Even the youngest and strongest of the internees began to fail. More than half the camp had swollen hands and feet. Their body chemistry was so askew from malnutrition, they were always dizzy with headaches or had toothaches, bleeding gums and sore tongues. Across campus everyone seemed to walk at a snail’s pace, so anemic they had to pause frequently for breath or rest. To the nurses the camp took on a geriatric look.

  Eleanor Garen “had a funny feeling that night”. The Japanese soldiers on guard duty outside the wall were singing, like men having one last moment together. More ominously, earlier in the day soldiers had placed large barrels under the central staircase in Main Building.

  Dynamite? Whispered a few panicked internees.

  Rose Rieper snuck a look at the barrels and saw something else, some “stuff”, as she put it, “soaked with kerosene”. She and some of the other nurses were convinced the commandant meant to “blow STIC up”.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  THE FLYING COLUMN

  It should have been reassuring, watching the Japanese burn everything they couldn’t carry with them. It should have been a joy, watching them prepare to leave.

  But it was not. It was frightening. It shook the camp out of its lethargy, and the internees watched their captors warily. Was it true? Would they just leave, let the internees walk out on their own? Or would they do the same thing to the people that they were doing to everything else they couldn’t take with them?

  Over the years of captivity, Japanese propaganda had sensationalized the care they were lavishing on the people at Santo Tomás. According to the Japanese, the internees were treated like honored guests, under conditions that far exceeded the standards of the Geneva Convention.

  Once the captives were free to tell of the deprivations, the tortures, the killings, the world would know they had lied. Everything the people of Santo Tomás knew about their captors told them the Japanese would never allow their lie to be found out. They would destroy the evidence first. And that meant—

  A cold shiver gripped Dorothy’s spine, shot through her neck and lodged as knife points behind her eyes. If it came to that, she would hide the children in her secret place. They would be frightened of the dark, but it was the only place where they would be safe. Still, how would she know when to take them there? If they were already in hiding when a roll call was demanded, there would be hell to pay. If she took them too early and the food stash ran out, she’d risk exposing them by creeping out to bring more food.

  The pain behind her eyes began to throb. It was impossible for her to plan. She would have to rely on her instincts. She prayed to God she would know the signs when the time came.

  Meanwhile, watching the Japanese preparations became infuriating. They clamped down on any minor infraction, real or imagined.

  But so far, the only inte
rnees who had been singled out were the Camp Committee. These four men seemed to have received the brunt of the hostility. In retrospect, everyone believed that weeks before, on Christmas Eve, no less, they’d seen the first indication that the Japanese were preparing to leave. It was then that, with no warning whatsoever, the four men who had served as the camp administrators had been taken by the Japanese and not heard of since. No charges had been made, no indication why they were being singled out.

  It was no surprise, however. These were the men who would know any deals that had been struck between the Japanese command and the internees. These were the men who would know any bribes that had been passed. These were the men who would know if relief supplies were distributed to the internees as intended, or the Japanese had kept them for themselves. If the Japanese wanted to get rid of any evidence of wrong-doing, it was clear that they would have to silence these four.

  Everyone in camp knew that wherever the men were, they had to be suffering terribly. Few came back from Japanese custody able to walk upright without assistance.

  It was possible they weren’t being fed.

  It was possibly even worse than that.

  It was possible that they were already dead.

  Santo Tomás Internment Camp

  Limited Private Edition - Frederic H. Stevens

  © 1946 - page 70-71

  December 23rd [1944] ...“In the afternoon (of this same day) a number of military police came into Camp and a platoon of soldiers were also brought up from the gate. The Hospital and compound were closed and thoroughly searched. Guards were posted at the doors and inside the Main Building, and most of the Main Building was searched. Mr. E. E. Johnson was arrested about 3 P.M. and presumably taken out of Camp for investigation; Mr. C. C. Grinnell, A. F. Duggleby and Clifford L. Larsen were arrested later and held in the Commandants office until after 7 P.M. when they were lodged in the Camp jail. The shanties of these four internees were thoroughly searched by the military police and soldiers and also Mr. Duggelby’s sleeping quarters in the Finance and Supply office. No indication was given as to the reason for their arrests.”

  C. C. Grinell was one of the most prominent men in Camp, being Chairman of the Internee Committee. A. F. Duggleby, vice president of Benguet Consolidated Mining Company, had held important positions in the Camp administration since its organization; Ernest E. Johnson was the Special Oriental representative of the United States Maritime Commission, and Clifford L. Larsen was in the service of the Atlantic Gulf and Pacific Company, Manila. The arrest of these four men profoundly shocked the Camp.

  The War Diary of Paul Esmerian

  Translated by Robert Colquhoun

  pg 165

  Two camp leaders, Carroll Grinnell and Alfred Duggleby, together with Ernest Johnson and Clifford Larsen, were arrested for being in contact with Filipino guerrillas – Larsen, who was innocent, a case of mistaken identity. All four were taken from camp on 5 January 1945. On 21 February, after liberation, their bodies were found buried in Manila. They had been beheaded.

  . . . .

  An uneasy quiet kept most of the internees indoors that night as everyone pondered the message dropped from an American plane. They hunkered down, not knowing what they were getting ready for. But once again Bobby braved the downpour to collect some scraps of food from the Japanese mess tent. He hardly worried about it anymore, since his grownup buddy Saul Travay always hovered in a hidden spot around the corner, keeping an eye on him. He didn’t really need Saul, but if his mom got suspicious all he had to say was that he’d been out with Saul. She’d figure Saul had given him the food, and it wouldn’t be a really big lie. Just a little fib.

  Tonight Bobby strutted. He swaggered. He approached the tent through the muckish mud with a grin he couldn’t wipe off his face. They were going to love tonight’s cartoon.

  He felt the scrap of cloth inside his pocket. The fabric was getting a bit limp, but so far he’d managed to keep it dry.

  Bobby stopped just short of the platform, keeping a respectful distance, waiting for them to notice his presence. He caught the eye of the young guard he always dealt with, and the man grinned, raised his hand in a wave and called a greeting.

  But just as he rose, Lieutenant Abiko stepped between him and Bobby. The lieutenant snapped out an angry order and all the men who had begun to wave a greeting suddenly became intently interested in their plates.

  Bobby’s soldier looked at the armed guard, then at Bobby, shrugged his shoulders and then sat back down. He peeked at Bobby out of the corner of his eye and gave a quick shake of his head.

  He was not being allowed to speak with Bobby tonight.

  Bobby’s face fell. What had he done? Why didn’t they like him anymore?

  He pulled the napkin from his pocket and stepped up to the platform. Lieutenant Abiko leaned toward him, threatening, jabbing his gun toward the camp, a signal that he expected Bobby to leave.

  But Bobby had taken a lot of time drawing tonight’s cartoon. He especially wanted the friendly soldier to have it.

  Sensing that he might never have another opportunity, Bobby sought and held the eye of the young soldier. He slowly bowed, and before straightening up, reached forward and placed the napkin on the platform. Keeping his head down, he smoothed it out, and then reached into his pocket for the fountain pen the young soldier had let him keep.

  With a reverence that belied his years, Bobby placed the fountain pen on top of the napkin, dropped his arms to his sides, and slowly completed his bow.

  The mud sucked at his shoes as he backed away, threatening to land him on his bottom. His throat tightened, but he refused to cry.

  They’d liked his drawings. He’d liked their food. But the guard with the gun put an end to their exchange that night.

  He squared his shoulders as he hurried around the corner where Saul waited. Walking upright just made his hungry stomach cramp all the harder. Still, Bobby felt proud that he had decided to leave the napkin and return the pen. They hadn’t kept their part of the bargain. But at least he had kept his.

  The Santo Tomás Story

  A.V.H. Hartendorp - Page 401

  Deaths during the day numbered four for the first time in the history of the camp. Men were seen, greeted casually, spoken to; they looked weak and pale—but everyone looked that way. One did not think of them as men who were soon to die, and then they were dead. It seemed that in its last stages beriberi destroys the will to live. Internees began to study each other’s faces for marks of death—shamefacedly, pityingly. Men were beginning also to study these facial expressions as applied to themselves. “Does that man think I am going to die? Do I look as bad as that?” The cold fear of death gripped probably most of the weakened men and women in the camp.

  . . . .

  “You know what it means, Fred,” Dorothy whispered. The children were already in the room getting ready for bed while she and Fred said their hasty goodnights at the Annex door. They’d intercepted Saul bringing Bobby home, and something had made Saul spill the whole story of the cartoon and food exchanges. He’d seemed worried, and they’d been too shocked to be angry with the teenager for abetting Bobby’s misadventure.

  “They’re separating themselves from the children because they know they’re going to do something bad to them.”

  Dorothy was adamant that she was right. Fred was skeptical, still refusing to believe the worst. Time after time he had seen the Japanese brutality, and still he refused to believe that they might exterminate the entire camp.

  “Give it another day, Dorothy,” he pleaded.

  “But—”

  “Just one more day. Then we’ll see. If we need to hide the children, we will, but you’ll stay with them.”

  “I can’t!”

  “You will.” Fred gave her a stern look, one she rarely got from him. “I’ll get food to you if it goes beyond a week.”

  “But they’ll take you and—”

  “Shh. Th
ey’ll be too busy to think about finding you. And they won’t get anything out of me. You have to trust me.”

  Dorothy watched the certainty settle over him. At least he saw now that they would have to hide the children soon. At least he was awaking from his state of denial. She would give him the one more day that he asked. If things progressed as far tomorrow as they had today, he would have to be blind not to see that it was time to hide the children.

  It seemed the only way. The only way. To save her children’s lives.

  . . . .

  Just after nine o’clock that evening, a strange rumbling was heard. It had the feel of a vast squadron of airplanes coming in low. But this sound was even deeper. It hugged the ground, pounded its message mile by mile as it neared the gates of Santo Tomás. It rose from subterranean depths on velvet-footed megatons to vibrate on the surface.

  We’re coming, it said.

  The shredded trunks of trees bombed bare shook with its approach, shedding their collected ash upon the trembling ground. Roofs of buildings destroyed in earlier bombings lost their tender hold and collapsed, as if bowing to a long-awaited avenger.

  Something happens.

  Inside the camp, people stirred. Confused, wary. Was it time to hide? Time to run? Run where?

  The rumbling escalated. Internees cowered, reached for their emergency kits, the ones that had stood ready for three years. If they had to run, these kits held the meager things they wouldn’t leave without. Passports. Birth certificates. Money.

  Husbands slipped across campus to find their wives, mothers roused children from their sleep.

  Something happens.

  At the far end of the wide avenue, the long guns turned the corner first, then swung crazily around, the bulk of the massive tanks that carried them maneuvering in their awkward dance around the corner. Curbs crumbled, pulverized into sand by the forbidding treads of the behemoths.

  The tanks advanced, their fearsome rumbling ratcheting to unnerving heights as they approached the gates. Their guns swayed left, then right, then settled into place, trained on the gates of Santo Tomás.