The Year of Counting Souls

by Wallace, Michael

  “Hush,” Louise told Frankie, feeling her face flush. “You’re making us seem ridiculous.”

  “I’m going back. That’s all there is to it. I’m going back, and I’m demanding that I travel with the soldiers who can walk. If I have to walk all the way to Bataan, I won’t be stuck with these cripples.”

  Her flashlight came on, and she trudged off the way they’d come. Louise started to say something, then thought better of it.

  “You’re letting her go?” Sammy asked, watching as the light bounced along in the direction from which they’d come. It vanished around the corner.

  “She’ll figure it out soon enough, even if she has to walk all the way back to Sanduga.” Louise set off again, slowly enough for the Japanese soldier to keep up with her. “We can’t have gone more than two miles.”

  “Feels like twenty,” Fárez said, coming up behind her. Stumpy sniffed at Louise’s feet and pulled on his leash.

  “She’ll get back to Kozlowski, who will yell at her, and then she’ll have to hurry to catch us again. By then she’ll have it figured out.” Louise shrugged. “If not, I’m sure she’ll hector me into telling her the rest.”

  “Call me a dummy,” one of the other men said, “but what is it exactly we’re trying to figure out?”

  “That we’re not going to Bataan,” Louise said.

  “Yeah, I figured that out, but there’s something else, right?”

  “We never were. There was no other road out of Sanduga, and both the doctor and the lieutenant knew it when they brought us there. None of these trails lead to Bataan.”

  “We’re a field hospital behind enemy lines,” Fárez said. “Is that it? There’s some other hospital in the mountains that we’re supposed to find, is that right?”

  “Yes, Corporal, that’s about the shape of it,” she said. “There’s not going to be a rescue of Bataan and Corregidor. The Philippines are on their own, and that means they’re going to fall to the Japanese. At least so far as I understand it. We’ve been sent out to help the resistance. Once you boys are healed, I imagine you’ll go out and join the natives in raiding and the like. I’ll stay behind and fix you up when the enemy shoots you full of holes.”

  “Wonderful,” someone grumbled. “Nobody asked us.”

  “You expected the army to give you a vote?” someone else said.

  This brought chuckles, but they were strained, and Louise heard pain and worry in the men’s voices as they kept up their banter. She called a temporary halt a few minutes later to check them over. More of the same: stitches breaking, wounds leaking blood, and slings in need of adjustment. She gave out half doses of morphine to two of them. They were no good to her crying out in pain, but she had to conserve her morphine and couldn’t give them full doses.

  The miles trudged on and on. The green curtain grew thicker and thicker. There was no rain, but the air was so warm and humid that she was drenched with sweat. They drained their canteens, she filled them with stream water disinfected with halazone tablets, and they drained them again. Louise’s legs ached from the constant up and down of the trail, and she had blisters on her feet, but anything she felt would be suffered tenfold by the men on crutches, so she kept her mouth shut. The flashlight batteries died, and she replaced them.

  Three hobbling soldiers with lesser injuries overtook her company in the middle of the night. One was Private Johnson, who’d been healthy enough to dig latrines and do carpentry but was now shaking and sweating with malaria and could barely keep up. She ordered him to slow his pace and continue with them.

  And then Frankie reappeared. She was with two cargadores, trudging along with their impossible burdens.

  “What a nightmare,” Frankie said as she fell back in with her original companions. “Stupid me, putting extra miles on my feet on a night like this.” A loud sigh. “I guess you know the truth. Guess you know everything and have all along.”

  “That we’re not going to Bataan? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I was ordered not to.”

  “Because of my reaction—that’s why they told you to keep it from me. They thought I’d react badly.”

  None of this came out as a question, but as a flat statement. Subdued. Louise had never heard Frankie so discouraged. She must have been yelled at, told to act her part, do her duty. This was the army, and she was no schoolgirl. Time to grow up and do her job. That’s what Louise would have told her, anyway, and she couldn’t imagine either Dr. Claypool or Lieutenant Kozlowski going more easily on her.

  “Well, I won’t react badly,” Frankie added. “Mark my words, I’ll do what must be done, and without complaining.”

  Louise glanced at her. If only she could be believed.

  Morning brought a spectacular vision of deep mountain gorges and craggy, mist-covered hillsides. The trail snaked around mountainsides, over gushing streams, and past towering moss-covered walls. The air was thick and dense with the smell of trees and wildflowers. White cockatoos soared overhead, along with other birds that filled the air with their calls and screeches.

  A rumble came from deep in the mountain range, sounding like the distant boom of guns. But it was thunder, nature’s artillery, and the rain began to fall. A drizzle turned almost at once into a deluge just as they were crossing a rope-and-plank bridge. The men on crutches struggled across, and Frankie began to sob, sounding so miserable that Louise felt sorry for her in spite of everything. The trail on the other side was a muddy current they had to wade through.

  At the moment when things couldn’t seem worse, they stumbled upon a grass-roofed shack on the side of the trail. Cargadores had taken refuge inside, and urged the newcomers to join them. They had a smoky fire going and were chewing betel nuts.

  One of the cargadores handed them sweet, sticky rice balls wrapped in banana leaves. Louise had never cared for their gummy texture, but they tasted wonderful now, as they’d trudged all night with little to eat. The other Americans accepted theirs gratefully and shared cigarettes in return. Only Frankie turned up her nose at the food.

  Louise attended to blisters on hands and in armpits caused by hobbling on crutches for hour after hour. She gave more quinine to Johnson, who collapsed on a woven reed patati and shivered uncontrollably. As she worked, more refugees from the village and its hospital kept joining them, until the shack was packed and people were practically sitting on top of each other. Among them was Maria Elena and several more of the wounded.

  “How are they doing?” Louise asked Maria Elena in a low voice after taking a quick glance at the newcomers. The three nurses had tucked into one corner, knees drawn against their chests to leave more room for others.

  “Some better, some worse. Private Zwicker is in bad shape.”

  Louise frowned, surprised. “I thought he was on the mend. Don’t tell me his wound is infected.”

  “Dysentery,” Maria Elena said. “It hit him just after you left.”

  She looked about but didn’t see the man. “Where is he?”

  “Outside, I think. He can’t go long without taking a break, if you know what I mean.”

  Poor fellow. Pouring rain outside, and he was squatting miserably in the jungle, voiding his bowels. She didn’t have anything to give him, either. Just then, he limped in, looking as pale and feeble as an old man. The only place to sit was near the entrance to the shack, where the water left the ground muddy, but Zwicker looked relieved to be in position to get back outside in a hurry the next time his bowels opened up.

  There were two good things about the rain. First, it gave a break to exhausted men and women, and second, Louise figured it would slow the Japanese, too. Maybe the last group leaving Sanduga would enjoy a few more hours to haul out goods, to rest, and to attend wounds and illnesses.

  The rain thrashed the hut for another couple of hours. And then, as quickly as it had started, it was over. One minute Louise cocked her head, wondering if the rain was pounding with less ferocity on the roof or if she’d grown accustomed to it, and
the next it was a light drizzle. Five minutes later it had stopped entirely, and five minutes after that, the sun peeked through the dispersing clouds.

  Unfortunately the two sickest men had only grown worse. Johnson was barely coherent, stricken by malarial chills, and Zwicker was too weak to get up and had fouled himself. The nurses cleaned him up as best they could.

  “You go on ahead,” Zwicker told Louise. He licked his lips. “There will be others along for me and Johnson.”

  All the others were moving again, except for Sammy Mori, who stood just outside, visibly reluctant to leave her protection, and Fárez, who stood scowling at Sammy, as if not trusting the Japanese alone with the nurses.

  Stumpy stood next to Fárez with his half tail wagging and his mouth panting around a muzzle caked with mud. He cocked his head at the two prone men and whined, his expression seeming to say, “Come on, guys! Get up, let’s go!” So much fun to be had on the trail, after all.

  “Someone should stay with you,” Louise told Zwicker. She glanced at Johnson, who kept his eyes squinted shut.

  “Nah, you don’t worry,” Zwicker said. “I’ll take care of Johnson.” He winced and put his hand on his belly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t take care of yourself, let alone anyone else.”

  “I could stay,” Fárez said. “Me and the Jap—I’ll keep an eye on him, too. You go on ahead.”

  “I’m not doing that, either,” Louise said. “You and Sammy are both continuing on the road.”

  She was torn between her desire to stay with the sick men and to catch up with the other nurses and the multitude of patients already pressing ahead. She should go, she decided at last. Roughly half the hospital crew was still behind them on the road, including Miss Clarice and Dr. Claypool. It’s not like she’d be abandoning Zwicker and Johnson to their fate.

  “Okay,” she said reluctantly. She squatted and put a hand on Private Johnson’s sweating forehead. “Private Johnson,” she said in a soothing voice.

  The malarial patient’s eyes flickered open, and he managed a nod. “I’ll be . . . soon as the quinine . . .”

  “Take care. Both of you drink plenty of water, and don’t either of you start on the road until you’re told. I know you might start feeling better, but I don’t want you out there alone.”

  Both men agreed with that, and Louise rose with a sick feeling in her stomach that she wouldn’t see them again. She turned toward the door.

  Fárez grabbed for his crutches, relaxing his grip on the leash. Stumpy took the opportunity to pull loose, and he came trotting back into the shack. He shoved his muzzle under Zwicker’s chin and whined.

  “Come on, Fárez,” Zwicker grumbled. “Keep your mutt away from me.”

  Nevertheless, he rubbed at the dog’s head, and looked away when Louise picked up the end of the rope and tugged Stumpy along. The dog whined one last time, and somehow that made her feel worse than ever.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The journey was more miserable than ever. The sun was blazing hot, and the air felt like damp cotton balls as Louise drew it into her lungs. The trail was one big puddle where it wasn’t crossed with muddy streams. Fárez occasionally spoke to the dog, but otherwise the three traveled in silence. Louise wanted to enjoy the quiet, knowing they’d soon catch up to the others, and her responsibilities would multiply, but her thoughts and worries were more oppressive in the silence.

  “Tell us some poetry,” she said to Sammy when she couldn’t take it anymore. “One of your nature poems.”

  “Between the blisters, the heat, and the mosquitoes, I’m not feeling an affinity for the natural world at the moment.”

  She smiled. “Neither am I, which is why I need a reminder that we shouldn’t burn the whole wretched jungle to ash.”

  “Okay, then here’s an appropriate one.”

  Mosquito buzzing at my ear—

  Does it think

  I’m deaf?

  Fárez groaned. “That’s not a poem, that’s reality.”

  “True enough.” Sammy fell silent, and Louise was settling back into her thoughts, when he spoke up again. “Here’s one you might like more. Or maybe not.”

  The man pulling radishes

  Pointed my way

  With a radish.

  Fárez stopped briefly, and an odd expression crossed his face. “That’s . . . There’s something about that. I don’t understand it, but I like it. Could you say that one again?” Sammy did so, and Fárez nodded. “He’s a man picking radishes, but he doesn’t think about what he’s doing.”

  Sammy looked pleased. “That’s right. What makes Issa’s haiku satisfying is something mundane looked at from a strange angle. It’s startling, it makes you think. Do you see the question? Every man can pick radishes, but what kind of man points with them?”

  The poem had seemed simple at first, almost pointless, but now Louise gave it some more consideration and thought she understood. “The kind of man who gives no more thought to the radishes in his hand than he does to his index finger.”

  “That’s exactly what I meant,” Fárez said excitedly. “Only I didn’t have the words to say it.”

  “You did well enough,” Sammy said. “Of course that’s not the only meaning to the poem, but it’s a good one. It’s deeper thinking than my brother ever did. Yoshi always scoffed at Japanese poetry.”

  At mention of his brother, Sammy’s face darkened, and his mood seemed to be swinging shut. Louise hurried to put her foot in the door before it closed altogether.

  “This is the brother who is looking for us?”

  “Yes.” Sammy hesitated a moment, and Louise thought he was done speaking, but then he added, “When we lived in America, he was purely American. Not Japanese. That’s the funny thing.

  “He was younger than I was when we came to America, and barely even remembered living in Japan by the time we returned. Maybe that’s why he never took to all the Japanese stuff. Never saw a point in learning how to read his native language. He said our art and poetry were simple, didn’t care about praying or any of it. Didn’t eat his rice with chopsticks.”

  “That last part seems reasonable,” Fárez said. “Who can pick up rice with chopsticks?”

  “Any Japanese person over the age of two,” Sammy said.

  “Oh,” Fárez said.

  “So when we went back to Japan, and he couldn’t use his chopsticks well, when he could barely read, when his vocabulary was as sophisticated as a seven-year-old boy’s because he’d never wanted to keep it up, you can imagine how that affected him. So much for hating Japan. Now he loved it.”

  Louise wasn’t sure she understood. “I’d have thought he’d hate Japan all the more. He’d be like a fish out of water when he got home.”

  “We were still kids—there was no choice but to dive back in. I was sixteen, and Yoshiko was fourteen. We had to go to school, had to interact with kids who saw us as practically foreigners. School was . . . ugly.”

  “How do you mean?” Louise asked.

  “A school is an unnatural place if you think about it. If you think how people used to live, everyone on farms, children learning from their parents, from their brothers and sisters. The village elders. Maybe they would study for a few hours a week, but they didn’t sit with other children while an overworked teacher tried to keep them all from running wild. Japanese kids are quieter and more disciplined than what you see in America, but there’s a cruel struggle going on at all times. Every kid is bullied, and every kid is a bully. You find your place in society, and you torment those below while you get tormented from above.” Sammy grimaced. “That’s how it was in my school, anyway.”

  “Mine, too,” Fárez said, “and I grew up in Los Angeles. Maybe it’s that way everywhere.”

  “It’s good preparation for the army,” Sammy said.

  “Isn’t it, though?” Fárez said. “Gets you used to the abuse.”

  “It explains everything about my brother. Yoshi learned his les
sons—how to bully, how to be bullied—and when he joined the army, he took them with him. Became fanatically devoted to the emperor, devoted to spreading Japanese power. He joined the Kempeitai, the military police, although secret police is more accurate. They catch traitors, punish the disloyal, force military rule on civilian populations through bullying and terror. That’s my brother. That’s the ugly face of Japanese culture.”

  “But what about you?” Louise asked. “You must have faced the same thing, but it didn’t turn you into a monster.”

  “My brother learned one lesson, and I learned another,” Sammy continued. “He turned outward, and I turned inward. We both became authentically Japanese, I suppose. Each in our own way.”

  “And the army?” she asked. “Why did you join?”

  “No choice. I was conscripted and sent to China. After all these years, I’m still a corporal, so I obviously didn’t thrive in the military. I’m not sure I’d thrive in any environment, to be honest.”

  Louise wasn’t so sure about that. Sammy was intelligent and sensitive. He reminded her of an artist or an artisan. A writer, a musician. If he’d been Catholic, a priest or a monk. Someone who lived a solitary, contemplative life, unless he took on students. Or maybe simply a poet with a garden, like one of the men Sammy was always quoting.

  “Is that why you wrote a confession to your brother?” Louise asked. “You wanted to get out of the army?”

  “I suppose I could have shot myself in the leg. But that seemed like the coward’s way out.”

  “What confession?” Fárez asked.

  Louise glanced at the Japanese soldier, her eyebrows raised in asking his permission. Sammy managed a shrug as he kept levering himself along on his crutches.

  “Corporal Mori witnessed atrocities in Nanking. He wrote what he saw in English and shared it with the international community of the city so the world would know.”

  Fárez let out a low whistle. “That takes guts.”

  “The Japanese knew it was one of their own,” she said, “but never figured out who. A few weeks ago, Sammy wrote a letter to his brother in the secret police to confess.”