Hunt for the Bamboo Rat

by Graham Salisbury

  A few days before, the Japanese had landed their main force at Lingayen Gulf, about one hundred miles north of Manila, batting the Filipino reservists aside like bothersome ants. Two days later, they landed another force south of Manila. The Americans were now caught in a giant trap.

  Zenji and Freddy spent Christmas cramming important documents into fifty-gallon fuel drums and setting them afire.

  “You scared, Freddy?”

  “I’d be an idiot if I wasn’t.”

  “What do you think they’d do to us if we got captured?”

  “Remember Nanking?”

  Zenji looked at Freddy. “We’re dead if they discover we’re army. We should work on our story.”

  Freddy grunted as he heaved another box into the fire. “I got a better idea: don’t get caught.”

  Word came down that G2 would evacuate to Corregidor, the tiny rock fortress that stood guard at the entrance to Manila Bay, twenty-six miles away. The island sat in the open sea just a few miles south of the Bataan Peninsula. Zenji had heard Corregidor was full of tunnels built by the army for bombproof storage.

  General MacArthur worked around the clock, accumulating supplies and as much ammunition as he could lay his hands on for Corregidor’s antiaircraft batteries.

  They would need every bit of it.

  Just before they left Manila, the last satchel of mail arrived. There was one more letter for Zenji. It was from Aiko. It was short and to the point.

  Dear Zenji,

  Please write home. Ma is very worried. She sits alone and looks out the window. We are all worried. Did you get my last letter? Are you getting any letters? Maybe you wrote and we haven’t gotten it yet. I hope so. But write so we know you’re safe. We read that Japan bombed Clark Field and the naval base near you. Are you safe? Write and tell us.

  Do it now.

  Please.

  Aiko

  They would get his last letter soon. He hoped.

  With the Japanese forcing them to evacuate, it was probably the last letter he’d be able to send for a while.

  That night, in early January 1942, along with the hundreds of American troops still left in Manila, Zenji and Freddy boarded an interisland steamer and set out in blackout mode on a zigzag course designed to evade enemy submarines.

  “They call Corregidor ‘the Rock,’ ” Zenji said.

  He and Freddy stood at the ship’s rail, looking back at Manila.

  Freddy pointed with his chin toward the blacked-out city. “In a few days that place will be crawling with Japanese troops.”

  “Spooky,” Zenji said.

  “What are we going to do with all our prisoners?”

  “Who knows? Move them somewhere.”

  Colonel Olsten appeared beside them, a shadow. “You two just got special orders. General MacArthur has assigned you to be his personal interpreters. You’ll be working in his office on Corregidor.”

  Zenji’s jaw dropped. “The general wants us?”

  “You’re the best we have.”

  Freddy clapped his hand on Zenji’s shoulder. “With him we’ll be safer. Nobody’s going to let anything happen to General MacArthur.”

  Colonel Olsten agreed. “We’d be in bad shape if something did.”

  “We’d be in bad shape if a sub got us, too,” Zenji said, looking out over the black bay. “Gives me the creeps being this exposed.”

  “Boom!” Freddy whispered. “We’re on the bottom looking up.”

  Two hours later, the ship docked safely at Corregidor.

  As the line of men headed inland, Zenji made out the shadowy shapes of tents and antiaircraft guns.

  “Marines from Shanghai,” Colonel Olsten said. “They had to evacuate, too. But unlike us, they have weapons.” He started up a slope. “I hope you boys like spiders.”

  “Hate those things,” Freddy said.

  Which made Zenji wonder: was he still the Bamboo Rat? There might be a few Japanese nationals in a cell who knew about Americans with code names who had been slinking around Manila. If there were, they could soon be released by the invading enemy.

  And he’d be hunted.

  John Jones came to mind. Creepy as he was, Zenji could not see him as a traitor. He was probably just an American living in the Philippines, maybe even a common criminal.

  But he had said he’d lived in Japan for a while.

  The guy was a mystery.

  They set up in one of the dusty barracks. Zenji found a bunk that wasn’t too saggy and shoved his duffel under it, too tired to check for spiders. Anyway, spiders didn’t bother him … unless, of course, they were black widows … or some monster thing they had in the Philippines.

  He fell asleep instantly.

  The next morning as Zenji and Freddy headed out to a mess tent, a squadron of planes burst over the hills and bore down on them, machine guns blazing.

  “Zeros!” someone shouted.

  Japanese fighters, followed by three bombers.

  Freddy and Zenji hit the dirt.

  Zenji covered his head and curled into a ball, making himself as small a target as he could. Bullets spat up dirt inches from his face.

  After the first pass, he got up and ran for the trees.

  Men scattered for cover like disturbed ants. Marines sprinted toward the antiaircraft emplacements. Some shot into the sky with their rifles, hitting nothing.

  A Zero flew low to survey the situation, shot straight up, banked, came back around, and strafed the encampment. A bomber came in after it and dropped a bomb that blew out all the windows on the side of one of the barracks. The blast knocked Zenji off his feet and rang in his ears.

  The bomber thundered past, rising, banking to circle back.

  Zenji spotted Freddy out in the open firing at the planes with his .45. “Freddy! Hide!”

  Freddy sprinted behind the barracks.

  The Marines got the big antiaircraft guns up and running, swung them around, and started blasting the sky.

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  The Zeros didn’t like that and went after them.

  Zenji watched, crouched under a tree, witnessing combat for the first time. The antiaircraft batteries pummeled the enemy. A bomber peeled off and plunged toward the sea, trailing smoke. It hit the water and tumbled like a wheel, ending in a great whoosh of white water.

  All Zenji could do was stay where he was. He had no weapon, and even if he had, what good would it do? He’d never been trained to use one.

  Bombs whistled as they fell. Thundering explosions shook the earth. He covered his head, his heart pounding like a hammer.

  Minutes later, it was over.

  The Zeros flew off with the two remaining bombers, antiaircraft fire chasing them.

  When the big guns ceased firing, an eerie silence fell over Corregidor. Fires and clouds of smoke blossomed upward. The smell of exploded ordnance hung in the air.

  Zenji crept out into the open … and stopped, sick.

  He’d never seen a dead man.

  Three bodies lay crumpled before him.

  For two months following the Zero attack, Corregidor was peaceful. The damage hadn’t been all that bad, but the once beautiful island was now scarred with shredded trees and gaping holes.

  As the Japanese closed in on Manila, General MacArthur set up headquarters in Malinta Tunnel, an eight-hundred-foot tube with twenty-five lateral tunnels on the north and south sides. It had been built into Malinta Hill by the Army Corps of Engineers more than ten years before.

  General MacArthur didn’t like hiding in a tunnel. It went against his grain. But the importance of his mission overrode everything else.

  Freddy and Zenji worked for him, though never directly. Their assignment was to try to make sense of intercepted communications, monitor Japanese radio transmissions, and pass on what they found to MacArthur’s staff.

  Every day Freddy and Zenji examined the huge map on the wall that kept track of U.S. and enemy troop movements. “Look at this,” Freddy said one day.
“They’re cornering General Wainwright.”

  On the map, Wainwright’s troops on the Bataan Peninsula were getting battered. Pins showed the enemy pushing them closer to the ocean every day.

  Zenji watched the situation deteriorate. General MacArthur paced. The peninsula was just a few short miles across the bay north of Corregidor. When Zenji and Freddy left the tunnel for fresh air, they could walk to spots where smoke across the water was visible.

  “Those poor guys are getting pushed into the sea,” Zenji said.

  “Be glad you can speak Japanese, or else you might get sent to join them.”

  “Show me how to shoot first.”

  “You don’t need a gun. You need a tank.”

  Zenji shuddered, thinking about what must be going on over there. “Don’t we have any reinforcements?”

  “Nope.”

  “Amazing how they keep holding on.”

  Freddy frowned. “They better start looking for a boat.”

  In March 1942, General MacArthur was ordered to relocate to Australia. The situation in the Pacific had gone from bad to worse.

  MacArthur pulled General Wainwright out of Bataan to take his place on Corregidor, leaving another general, Edward King, to fight on in the peninsula. Zenji felt bad for General King. What courage he and his men must have.

  Freddy and Zenji watched as General MacArthur and his staff fled Corregidor in a torpedo-armed attack craft called a PT boat.

  “He didn’t look happy to leave,” Freddy said.

  “Would you?”

  “No. Feel like I was running away.”

  “You heard his speech. He said he’d return. I believe it.”

  “So do I.”

  Zenji cleaned his glasses. They headed back to their quarters silently.

  In early April, U.S. forces on the peninsula were very close to being overrun. The news was all over the tunnel, and men were short on patience, snapping at this and that.

  “We’re next,” Freddy said. “They’ll be coming to take Corregidor.… Glad I still got my pistol.”

  Zenji looked at Freddy blankly, at a loss for words.

  “They’re closing in, brother,” Freddy said. “You got any civilian clothes with you?”

  Zenji had left pretty much all he had in Manila when they evacuated. Now he had only what he could grab from the supply room: two pairs of khaki pants, and shirts with no insignias.

  “I’m in the same boat,” Freddy said. “Only saved one civilian shirt.”

  They agreed that they were probably just days from getting their heads chopped off. They joked about it, but deep inside, Zenji was paralyzed with fear.

  Freddy said, “See if someone will issue you a .45. You need something.”

  “No, Freddy. I’m telling you. They come ashore, ditch that thing.”

  “Pssh.”

  “I’m serious. If they catch you with a weapon they’ll shoot you. They won’t think twice. It would infuriate them to see a Japanese fight against other Japanese.”

  “We’ll see.”

  And they would, because General King and his forces were quickly overcome and captured. The Bataan Peninsula was now entirely in Japanese hands.

  Corregidor was next.

  Within a week, the enemy had set up artillery on the southern tip of Bataan and began lobbing ordnance over the water to pummel Corregidor’s battlements.

  Colonel Olsten pulled Zenji aside. “I’ve got General Wainwright’s permission to send you and Freddy out of here to join General MacArthur at his headquarters in Australia. We may not be able to hold out. If we’re overrun, you two …”

  He let that hang.

  “I understand,” Zenji said. “But what about you?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll make out. Listen. We have only one chance to get you two out of here. In a few days a small aircraft will take you to Mindanao. From there, you’ll transfer to a B-17 and head on to Australia. Be ready.”

  “Yes.”

  Zenji and Freddy packed their duffels and lived out of them until the order came to head to the airfield. Zenji knew he’d miss the colonel. But even so, huge relief washed over him.

  A couple of days later, something else popped into his head.

  Benny!

  Was he still imprisoned at McKinley with the Japanese embassy staff? Or had the prisoners been moved out, too? Maybe by now he was in a Filipino prison. Had the Japanese moved into Manila yet?

  Alarms went off in his brain: Benny’s in the same danger as me. If the Japanese take Manila and release the embassy staff—find an American among them—they might take him for a spy and execute him. His family in Japan would live in disgrace, maybe even on the streets!

  Alone.

  Zenji was gripped by the memory of Benny’s wife and small son climbing aboard the passenger liner.

  He knew that Benny would never choose to side with Japan. He was loyal, a Hawaiian.

  Zenji had to help him. Benny’s family needed him. Zenji could fend for himself along with everyone else on Corregidor.

  “I want to give my seat to Benny Suzuki, the guy you had me spy on at the Japanese embassy.”

  “What? This is your only—”

  “He’s an American just like me, Colonel. The Japanese could call him a spy and execute him. He’s in the same position that I am. They won’t trust him.”

  Colonel Olsten frowned, thinking.

  “His wife and son are in Japan. What happens to them if Benny is executed as a spy?”

  Colonel Olsten pursed his lips.

  “Please. I want to stay. I belong here.”

  The colonel sighed. “He’s in McKinley. I’ll have him released immediately and sent here. As for you … well, you need weapons practice.”

  “Yes.”

  The boat carrying a confused Benny Suzuki to Corregidor arrived late the next night. The plane to Mindanao was taking off at midnight. In the dark it would be a risky flight, but in daylight—suicide.

  Zenji and Freddy waited at the dock.

  “I can’t believe you’re giving up your seat,” Freddy said.

  “He’s one of us, Freddy. And he’s got a family.”

  “Still, he was with them.”

  Zenji shook his head. “Twist of fate. Unlucky. Doesn’t matter. I gotta help him.”

  “You’re nuts. You’re also a good guy, Zenji, and braver than me.… I’m proud to know you.”

  Zenji glanced at Freddy, then away. “I’m proud to know you, too, wise guy.”

  They shook hands, hanging on a bit longer than usual.

  “Banzai,” Freddy said, and Zenji laughed.

  They were dressed as civilians. The last thing Zenji wanted Benny to know was that he’d been tricked, that Zenji was in the military and had spied on the Japanese embassy. Benny had trusted him. Zenji could explain everything later. But not now.

  Benny got off the boat carrying a small bag. He was thin now, older. When he spotted Zenji his face lit up.

  “What are you doing here? How’d you get out of prison? Didn’t you get caught up with the guys at the Momo hotel?”

  “Long story,” Zenji said, turning to Freddy. “Meet another Hawaii guy, Freddy Kimura.”

  Benny and Freddy shook.

  “Let’s go,” Zenji said. “Not much time.”

  “Time for what?” Benny asked. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

  “You’re going somewhere safe.”

  Benny grabbed Zenji’s arm. “Another prison?”

  “No! You’re an American. We’re getting you out.”

  “We?”

  “I meant the army. There’s a small plane with one last seat. Yours. Come on!”

  They started to run.

  “Where are we flying to?”

  “You’ll see. Go! We’re late.”

  They ran over to an idling jeep that zoomed off into the night.

  “I’m staying here,” Zenji shouted over the jeep’s roar. “The army needs me to translate.”
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br />   “But you’re a civilian.”

  “You’re a civilian, too, and you have a family. That’s why I begged them to get you out.”

  Benny looked at him, stunned.

  They made the airstrip in time. Freddy shook Zenji’s hand. “Catch you on Maui sometime.”

  “Save me and Benny some mangoes.”

  “I’m sorry to leave you, partner. You’ve been a good rat.” Freddy smiled and ran to the waiting plane.

  Benny clutched Zenji’s hand. “Thank you! Thank you! I hope … I’ll see you back home.”

  “Me too, Benny, me too.”

  “Zenji!” Freddy shouted from the plane. “Good luck!” Zenji waved.

  Benny clapped his hand on Zenji’s shoulder. “I’ll never forget this, my friend!”

  Two hours after the plane took off, the island was pounded by heavy artillery from Japanese ships offshore.

  Along with General Wainwright, his staff, Colonel Olsten, and the rest of G2, Zenji retreated into the depths of Malinta Tunnel. Even there they could hear the explosions and feel the earth shake.

  The lights flickered and went out.

  They crouched in the dark, whispering, waiting.

  “You should have taken that plane,” Colonel Olsten said.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re going to be questioned, son, and you must—must—stick with your cover. If they take you for a U.S. spy, it’s over.”

  Zenji gulped, his mouth dry. “I’m a … I’m a civilian working for the army. That’s all.”

  “Stick with that. No matter what.”

  “Yes.”

  “No matter what!”

  On May 1, 1942, the battle for Corregidor began with relentless aerial bombardments, followed by crushing artillery barrages from the sea. Zenji now understood what it meant when someone said death was knocking at your door.

  Japanese artillery accuracy was highly enhanced by spotters in observation balloons high above Bataan, only two miles away. From there they could clearly see the American targets and relay that information to their gunners.

  The only real safety lay inside Malinta Tunnel, but just a fraction of Corregidor’s eleven-thousand-man garrison could fit in, mostly army headquarters and the hospital.