by Alan Chin
Moyer shook Mitchell’s hand, telling him to take care. He hugged Andrew. “Thank you.”
Andrew only had time to nod before Hudson’s arms crushed him in a bear hug. Andrew hugged Stokes and Grady. They all smiled, but they were unconvincing smiles. Clifford leaned close and gave Andrew a kiss, told him to be careful. Cocoa said, “After the war, you and me are gonna cook up a meal these bums will never forget.” At the mention of after the war, they all went awkwardly silent.
“Let’s move out,” Hurlburt said.
They blackened their faces and limbs with mud as they moved through the camp, keeping to the shadows. They crept under the wire behind the boreholes and slipped into the jungle easily enough. After years of no escapes, the guards were lax. Within the cover of the trees, they looked at the camp, which seemed as peaceful as ever. Men strolled about; some squatted over boreholes. Guards paced like zombies outside the wire. Andrew peered through the window of a go-down only two hundred yards away. British officers chatted, yawned, and enjoyed each other’s company before going to bed.
They crawled a few yards deeper into the protection of the foliage and stopped again. Andrew fought a whirlwind of fear. He struggled to suppress the mad urge to dash into the safety of the camp. He stared at Mitchell to try to bolster the strength in his heart.
Mitchell whispered nervously, “Which way?”
Andrew signaled to stay put and keep quiet.
In the jungle the mosquitoes were ferocious, and Andrew had to summon all his willpower not to slap at them when he felt them bite.
Soon they heard the crunch of vegetation, and they froze as two outer perimeter guards passed a dozen feet in front of them. The guards stopped to exchange a few words. One pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. They leaned their rifles against a tree and both lit up. They exchanged more words.
Andrew and the officers stayed as still as mannequins. Andrew’s breath raced and he felt light-headed. He imagined that the guards could hear his teeth chattering.
Suddenly the guards stopped talking and grabbed their rifles. Andrew was certain that they’d been spotted, and wondered who would be the first to die. But the guards ambled away, continuing their rounds. Andrew waited another minute before he signaled to move out.
Still blanched with fear, the men stumbled in serpentine fashion away from the camp. They then crawled through the jungle at a painfully slow pace. Bats chased insects over their heads, and unseen birds called out with coarse voices. The gurgling sound of running water led Andrew to the creek, where he and Tottori had explored for rocks, and it guided them to the sea.
An hour passed before the jungle opened onto the beach. They stared out at the vast Pacific plane. Andrew looked to the spot where he and Tottori had made love. A smile creased his lips before he moved on. They crawled through the jungle foliage up from the beach until they saw the village.
“Behind us,” Hurlburt hissed.
The faint sound of footsteps drifted through the underbrush. It was impossible for Andrew to hear over the roaring surf, but the captain’s trained ears picked it up.
“A native,” Hurlburt whispered. “He’s barefoot.”
A moment later, a Malay youth tramped by, close enough for them to hear his breathing. He meandered to the village, where he climbed the ladder of the nearest hut and disappeared through the doorway.
They crouched behind some coconut palms to survey the village. There were a dozen or so structures on stilts, each with a ladder leading to a veranda attached to a palm thatch hut. Now that the drizzle had stopped, the Malays were socializing on their verandas. A dog barked, pigs grunted. The sound of broken laughter sprouted here and there. On the beach, close to the phosphorescent surf, the fishing boats sat with furled sails and fishing nets hung on racks waiting for the night’s work. The place had a simple, peaceful ambience, as if war had never touched it.
“Seems okay,” Mitchell said.
Andrew nudged Hurlburt and pointed to the headman’s hut, where he and Tottori had shared a meal. “That’s the elder’s hut. Those men on the veranda are the headsmen.”
Hurlburt nodded, squatting down to wait.
Andrew moved out, keeping to the shadows. He climbed the ladder to the elder’s hut and stepped onto the veranda. Three elderly men squatted in a circle, smoking pipes with long slender stems. Andrew hunkered on his haunches beside them. They all fell silent, staring at him as if he had dropped out of the sky.
“Tabe, Wang San,” Andrew said. He smiled serenely, as if his being there was a common thing.
“Welcome, Tottori’s ichi-ban boy,” said the oldest-looking man. He wore a sarong and a single piece of jewelry around his neck. He smiled, showing his few betel-nut-stained teeth.
“How art Thou?” Andrew asked.
“Me good,” the old one replied, groping for the proper English words. “Thou eat?”
Andrew knew that a refusal would be insulting, but he was too nervous to be hungry. He told them he had already eaten, but asked for coffee.
Wang San signaled to someone inside the hut. Soon a pretty young girl brought them all coffee.
Andrew knew they must finish their coffee before he mentioned his objective. It would offend them if he rushed right into business. Andrew drank the strong liquid slowly, so as not to seem impolite. His mind groped for a way to ask the elders about contacting the guerrillas who, rumor had it, operated on the island.
The elders resumed their conversation. Andrew understood enough Malay to follow along as they discussed the possibility of a good night’s catch. He finished his coffee. “Grandfather. This coffee is more than a sultan could hope for. I have no way to thank thee for thy hospitality.”
Wang San said, “Thou are welcome. Does thou wish more?”
“I wish only for one thing, Grandfather.”
The old man flashed a wicked grin, obviously thinking that Andrew was talking about sex.
They all snorted.
Andrew smiled and shook his head. “Thou knows of a bird which flies over the sea and sings to the American armies?”
The old man’s smile faded. “There may be such a bird in the jungle.”
“My friend must find such a bird to carry a message as quick as the wind.”
Wang San’s eyes widened perceptibly. “This will help end the war?”
The Malays went silent, no doubt wondering whether or not to trust Tottori’s boy. Andrew listened to the village sounds. Dogs continued to bark and pigs grunted. Behind him, in the hut, women’s voices chattered in soft tones. Singing rang from a nearby hut. Men on the beach prepared the nets.
“If Allah wills it so,” Andrew replied.
“Thou, my grandson, were kind to us once. Perhaps there is a way.” The old one bowed to his guest while the others traded fearful glances. The men filled their pipes, but Andrew pulled a pack of Kooas from his shoulder bag. The elders smiled as Andrew passed out the tailor-made cigarettes. They lit up with a burning brand brought from a cooking fire and finished their coffee in silence.
“Is this man in the prison?”
“No Grandfather. He and a friend wait beyond those trees,” Andrew said, pointing.
Wang San drew on his cigarette and called out a name. Moments later, a middle-aged man climbed the ladder and stepped onto the veranda. Wang San told Andrew that this man would lead them to the guerrillas, but they must not return. They must join the rebels against the Japanese.
Andrew bowed. “I thank thee,” he said, using his best Malay. “Thou are brave indeed.”
“I do a foolish thing. I place the safety of my village in thy hands.”
“Fear not, Grandfather. I will guard this secret with my life.”
The old man waved a hand. “Go with Allah, my grandson.”
“We are all in his hands, may his name be praised.”
The evening sky turned dark even though the clouds had scattered and the stars bit through the firmament. Andrew led the guide to the officers and explained
that the man would lead them to the rebel camp, and that they must join the rebels or somehow make their way to the allies. They must never return to the prison or the village.
“But you’re coming with us,” Mitchell said.
Andrew shook his head. “If I don’t return, he’ll send troops to scour the jungle. You can trust this man.”
“We’re square,” Hurlburt said. He held out his hand. Andrew gave it a firm shake. He turned to Mitchell and signaled to move out.
“Be right with you.”
Hurlburt and the guide moved twenty yards toward the beach and waited.
Mitchell took Andrew in his arms.
Andrew whispered, “Everything I’ve done was for you.”
Mitchell held him tighter. “After the war, I’ll find you. We’ll start fresh. Stay alive until then.” They gazed into each other’s eyes, but it was too dark to see anything.
Mitchell turned and hurried to where Hurlburt waited. They disappeared into the jungle, leaving Andrew alone in the night.
ANDREW made his way to the prison. The eastern sky grew pale as he made his way up the steps to the veranda and tiptoed into Tottori’s bedroom. The room was lit with a nearly depleted candle. Even in the dim light, Andrew saw that Tottori was not in the bed, as he expected. There was a slight noise in the shadows behind him. He turned. Tottori moved and Andrew jumped in surprise. He tripped and stumbled to the floor. He crawled to the bed and lay on the cool linen, staring up at the commandant, not bothering to deny the accusation that was so clearly written on the commandant’s face.
Without uttering a word, Tottori knelt beside Andrew. His finger caressed Andrew’s cheek. He pulled Andrew’s sarong from his hips. For the first time in months, Tottori was sexually aroused.
They kissed, hungry kisses, while at the same time Tottori maneuvered himself between Andrew’s thighs. Andrew absorbed his passion with quiet gratitude. He had betrayed his lover and now submitted to the mixture of tenderness and excitement as Tottori unleashed his pent-up desire.
Tottori entered him with one deep thrust, uttering a tigerlike growl. Pain ripped through Andrew. He welcomed it. Wrapped himself around it. Waves of pain mixed with relief washed through him as Tottori’s hips ground him deeper into the bedding. With Mitchell safely away and Tottori able to make love again, this pain seemed a pitiful price to pay for such treasures.
Tottori’s passion incinerated every other thought and emotion in Andrew’s consciousness until nothing existed beyond their lovemaking, ending with gentle kisses and soft caresses. For a few precious hours, as the morning light bled through the open shutters, the outside world was forgotten—no war, no prison, no betrayal, and no future. There was only sumptuous flesh, their binding love, and the dawn’s carmine rays.
Chapter Thirty-Four
August 13, 1945—0800 hours
MORNING showers. Dawn’s hush broke with cocks trumpeting the muted sunrise. As Andrew’s consciousness rose from slumber, he heard the muffled patter of raindrops drumming the thatched roof. Blades of dull light bled through the window slats, turning the bedroom walls gray.
Even before Andrew opened his eyes, he felt Tottori holding him snugly under the linen sheets. Arms locked him to Tottori’s chest. Lying perfectly still, Andrew absorbed the man’s warmth.
“Are you hungry?” Tottori whispered.
“Famished.”
Tottori ran his fingers through Andrew’s blue-black hair and caressed the nape of his neck.
Andrew turned to him. “You look tired. Were you up all night?”
“Wide awake. Did you find the rebels? Were they able to radio the message?”
Andrew stared into Tottori’s eyes. “You knew?”
“While you were gone, I ordered a muster and found that two American officers were missing. Just because you are not my camp spy doesn’t mean that I don’t have one. Tell me, did they find the rebels?”
“I think they will. You know what was in that message?”
Tottori said, “I can assume. Let’s pray the Americans liberate the camps before they invade the mainland. Now, go to sleep. I want to hold you for a few more hours.”
Andrew closed his eyes, overjoyed that his faith in his lover was not misplaced, and his breathing deepened as he gratefully drifted into slumber.
Coming awake to the harsh sound of tires skidding on gravel, Andrew reached for Tottori only to find he was alone. He sat up and listened to voices echoing from Tottori’s office. Brisk, tense voices. Tottori barked orders.
The morning air washed through the open windows, merging with the sounds of the prison stirring for breakfast. Andrew felt hungry after the night’s adventure, and the sweet anticipation of an egg over rice had his stomach growling.
Do-Han hurried through the door, carrying a cup of coffee and a rice bowl. He smiled a greeting as he bowed, placing the food on the floor. Andrew yawned happily. “Breakfast in bed?”
Do-Han said, “Colonel say, you eat now, pretty damn quick.”
Andrew nodded, hearing Tottori’s terse voice in the next room. He wondered what was up.
He downed his rice with coffee, lifted himself out of bed, pulled on his sarong, and strolled onto the terrace. Heavy drizzle grayed the landscape. To Andrew’s surprise, Kenji stood under the roof overhang, wearing a native sarong and sandals, and he was not wearing his wire-rimmed glasses. It was the first time Andrew had seen the secretary out of uniform.
Andrew admired the man’s attractive black eyes and his finely sculpted chest until Kenji blushed to the color of a ripe peach.
Tottori appeared at the door in full dress uniform. Andrew stared at the officer but didn’t recognize him. Behind that familiar face was someone who was not Tottori, someone unfamiliar. His blank stare studied the prisoners inside the wire. Neither Kenji nor Do-Han seemed to notice the substitution, but it was too real for Andrew.
Scrutinizing this man, Andrew found him beautiful. Yes, Andrew thought, this new Tottori is youthful and handsome. It’s as if the cares of a lifetime have lifted off his shoulders and his spirit soars across the sky. Andrew cried out, a faint helpless cry. This change could only mean one of two things—either Tottori had received his transfer or the war was over.
“Lingtse, come to my office.”
Andrew followed Tottori.
Lying on the desk were two swords in their scabbards and a leather-bound book. Tottori touched the book. “In high-ranking Japanese families, the patriarch keeps an ongoing diary. This book holds the lives of my father, his father and his, as far back as three hundred years. My family is samurai. A samurai’s entire history is documented in his family diary and his soul is captured within the steel of his swords.” Tottori’s right hand moved to grasp the longer of the two swords. “You, being an outsider, can never understand the utmost importance of these cherished things to a Japanese family. It is more important than our lives.”
Andrew nodded.
“The Americans have a bomb that can obliterate an entire city in an instant. They’ve dropped two of these bombs on Japan. Two hundred thousand civilians were incinerated.” Tottori halted to take a deep breath. “Now Russia has also declared war on Japan.” His eyes gazed at his sword. “Japan will surrender within days. My superior has already surrendered Singapore to Lord Mountbatten. All is lost.”
“Hikaru, I’m so sorry.” He stopped, because his words sounded pitifully inadequate. There was nothing to say, no way to console such horror.
“Sorrow. Yes. The whole of Japan weeps. So many precious lives lost, an entire generation.” He paused and took a ragged breath. “Lingtse. I require one more service from you. After that, our bargain is complete.”
“I have no wish to be free of you.”
“You will carry my diary, my swords, and these two scrolls to Kyoto and deliver them to my wife. Kenji and Do-Han will smuggle you out of Singapore. You and Kenji will travel through Malaysia, Siam, Indochina, and on to Japan. By the time you reach China, you should be able to ent
er my homeland.”
“You must keep them with you.”
“Please understand how important it is that you deliver these articles to my son. He must have them. Kenji has sworn to do everything possible to deliver you to Kyoto, but don’t put all your trust in him. These swords are priceless. He may think to steal them. He could buy a sizable farm for what these would bring.”
“You should be the one to hand them to your son.”
“There is no telling what will happen when the English come. I will not have my swords hanging on some English officer’s wall as a war trophy. That shame would dishonor my ancestors. Lingtse, you must do this. I’m begging you.”
Tottori suddenly sounded weary and his voice was tinged with despair. He insisted that it was his moral obligation to insure his sword and diary be preserved for the generations to come. It was clear that he attached supreme importance to his lineage. “My son is the end of the branch. He must have my swords and diary.”
Tottori had ancestors stretching back through centuries, and also the possibility of descendants stretching an equally long time into the future. Andrew had nothing. He knew little of his grandparents or aunts and uncles. He hardly knew his father. He had no history and was certain that he would never create any descendants. Who will remember me? he wondered.
As if reading his thoughts, Tottori said, “I have given a full accounting of our time together in this diary. You are now part of my family history. My descendants will read about you and tell their children about us for generations to come. They will tell poetic tales of how you inflamed my heart. You have become immortal.”
Andrew bowed low. “I’ll do what you ask on one condition.”
“Anything.”
“That you will do everything in your power to protect these prisoners. There will be no executions. You must promise me. If I hear about mass killings, I’ll throw these into the sea.”
“You think me capable of murder?”
“I think you will honor the orders of your emperor.”