Hunt for the Bamboo Rat

by Graham Salisbury

  At one point, Japanese artillery rained down twelve 240-millimeter shells per minute for five hours, eating away at the island’s concrete defenses.

  Just before midnight on May 5, a brutal barrage came in from the sea, and while U.S. troops dug deep into their foxholes, eight hundred enemy soldiers came ashore near the airstrip on the tail end of the island.

  To the east, another eight hundred found their way inland.

  The sound of the fighting reverberated through the tunnel. Zenji crouched near General Wainwright, his hands over his head, hoping the bunker wouldn’t fail and cave in on them.

  At five-thirty the next morning news came: an additional nine hundred Japanese troops had landed with heavy vehicles. At nine-thirty, three Japanese tanks began to systematically pulverize marine battlements, and move steadily beyond.

  “They’re coming here!” someone shouted from the far end of the tunnel. “They want the tunnels!”

  General Wainwright went white.

  Zenji, too. If those tanks came inside and started blasting, no one would survive.

  Zenji’s whole body began to shake. Fear will never control me. That was so easy to say back home, where he couldn’t imagine terror such as this. Henry, you have no idea. There were over a thousand wounded men in here, and every one was helpless.

  As the sound of Japanese tanks blasting away at the hillside grew louder, General Wainwright turned to his staff. “Enough! I will not allow one more man to die in this hopeless battle. We can’t hold out. We have to cut our losses now, before more men die.”

  Zenji waited, hardly breathing, as General Wainwright conferred with General Lewis Beebe, his chief of staff. “I … I hope to God I’m making the right decision.”

  After a moment of painful silence, General Wainwright said, “General Beebe, prepare a statement of surrender.”

  Immediately, men scattered, General Beebe barking orders.

  “Watanabe!” General Wainwright snapped.

  Zenji ran up. “Here!”

  “Come with me. We need you to translate our …”

  He could not say the word.

  “General Beebe will broadcast it in English first, then you will repeat it in Japanese.”

  “Y-yes, but—”

  “Follow me,” the general said, subdued.

  Hopelessness was a feeling Zenji had never known before. Even when Pop died he still felt hope—because of Ma, Aiko, Henry. But now, to give up. Surrender … he couldn’t grasp it.

  “That’s an order!” General Wainwright snapped.

  Outside the tunnel, the tanks clanked closer.

  General Beebe stared at the microphone for several seconds before he spoke. The muscles in his jaw rippled.

  “Go ahead,” General Wainwright said softly.

  This is killing them, Zenji thought.

  General Beebe began.

  “Message for General Homma, message for General Homma.”

  The radio transmission would be picked up in Cabcaben, Bataan, where General Masaharu Homma was thought to be headquartered.

  General Beebe identified himself, saying he and the United States military on the island of Corregidor wished to surrender.

  “At twelve hundred hours we will raise a white flag and cease all military actions against Japan. At that time I will send two members of my staff to Cabcaben on a boat, also flying a white flag. There, they will meet with General Homma and arrange a formal surrender. Once that has been completed, I will meet personally with General Homma at a site designated by him.”

  Zenji’s breath caught when General Beebe turned to him. “Repeat that in Japanese.”

  On his first word, Zenji stuttered.

  Think!

  Say it perfectly.

  He breathed deeply. Settle down.

  Zenji read the message.

  The response was immediate.

  It was transmitted into English by a loud, arrogant, low-level officer. “General Homma will not meet with staff members, only General Wainwright himself. Not only will you surrender Corregidor but also all American and Philippine troops in the region. There will be no other option but this.”

  The transmission ended.

  General Beebe turned to General Wainwright.

  The general thought a long moment before responding. “Tell General Homma that I cannot surrender on the terms put forth without first meeting the general in person.”

  The next response came from someone other than the low-level officer. “General Homma will agree to meet General Wainwright at Cabcaben.”

  The communication ended.

  Outside, the sound of tanks ground to a halt, and though battle could still be heard beyond, an eerie quiet settled over the men inside the tunnel.

  General Wainwright turned to Zenji. “You’ll come with me.”

  Zenji nearly choked. “To Cabcaben?”

  “I will need you there.”

  General Wainwright, his staff of ten, and Zenji set out in a small boat for the short journey to the Bataan peninsula.

  The ocean was calm. Zenji wore his civilian khaki uniform, no insignias. He was just employed as a translator.

  Breathe.

  Be calm. Think like a priest. Remain in control.

  Your story must stick.

  Be brave. For Pop.

  If you only knew, Henry. If you only knew.

  Within five minutes of leaving shore, a Japanese fighter swooped down for a closer look, then circled once and followed in wide arcs above.

  “Stay on course,” General Wainwright ordered the boat pilot. “If they think we’re making a run for anywhere but Cabcaben, that fighter will sink us.”

  “They’d love that,” someone spat.

  Zenji knew that if the guy who’d said that had had a weapon, he would fire at the plane. Many of the general’s troops, and some on his staff, wanted to fight to the last standing man. Like the Japanese pilot Zenji had interrogated, the humiliation of surrender and being taken prisoner was unacceptable.

  But the general was finished with death. His goal now was to preserve life.

  Zenji watched the circling fighter, gleaming in the sun. All around was the most peaceful sea, the shiny glint floating in a cloudless sky above … yet behind them lay the monstrosity of death and destruction on the Rock. And ahead … terrifying uncertainty.

  None of it seemed real.

  “I have no reason to believe General Homma will be anything less than honorable,” General Wainwright said.

  The tang of fear, like copper, tingled on Zenji’s tongue.

  The hum of the engine filled the silence as a boat landing came into view. “Here we go,” someone muttered.

  A detachment of armed troops waited onshore.

  Zenji realized he was about to come face to face with the armed enemy for the first time. He tried to relax his clenched jaw. Be cool, remember your story.

  The boat eased up to the dock.

  The boat pilot tossed a rope to a man on the pier, who pulled the hull close and threw a hitch over a cleat.

  The second the boat was secured a Japanese sergeant major began spitting orders unintelligible to all but Zenji.

  “What’s he saying?” General Wainwright asked.

  Zenji started to translate. “Sir, he—”

  “Don’t call me sir,” General Wainwright said through gritted teeth.

  Zenji winced. Careful!

  “He wants us to debark, line up in single file on the dock, and identify ourselves. Now.”

  “Do as he says, men.”

  Facing the Americans with twenty armed, grim soldiers lined up behind him, the sergeant major began at one end of the line. “Namae to kaikyu-wa?”

  “He wants to know your name and rank,” Zenji called down to the man facing the sergeant major.

  The sergeant major snapped his head toward Zenji and put up a hand to stop the guy from answering.

  Zenji choked.

  The sergeant major slowly swaggered down the line
to Zenji.

  Zenji’s hands began to tremble.

  The sergeant major came within inches of Zenji’s face. Zenji could see right into the man’s brain.

  He swallowed.

  Contempt flared in the sergeant major’s eyes.

  And some confusion.

  “Filipino?” the sergeant major asked in Japanese.

  “No, sir. American.”

  The sergeant major glanced down the line of men from Corregidor. “You are Japanese?”

  “Nisei. Born in America.”

  The sergeant major glared, then smashed his fist into Zenji’s face.

  Zenji staggered, his glasses flying. Electrical explosions blossomed in his eyes. His hands flew to his face and came away bloody. His left eye began to swell.

  “That’s quite unnecessary!” General Wainwright barked.

  The sergeant major glared at Zenji, now bent over with blood dripping into his hands.

  In that instant, Zenji was no longer afraid. He was enraged. Humiliated. No matter what these animals did to him he would never confess his military status. He would die first.

  Slowly, he straightened and met the sergeant major’s eyes.

  “Why are you in the American military?”

  “I am not in the military. I’m a civilian translator.”

  “You are lying.”

  “I am not.”

  The sergeant major spat on Zenji’s shirt.

  Zenji ignored it, picked up his glasses, put them back on. The frames were bent, but he could see. He regained his place in line, his gaze away from the sergeant major.

  So much for what he’d learned about Japan in Japanese school. There was no honor in this. No meiyo.

  “We don’t need you,” the sergeant major said to Zenji. “We have our own translators.” He called to three of his men. “You, you, and you! Take this traitor away.”

  Two of the men grabbed Zenji by his arms, but they averted their eyes, shamed by the sergeant major’s brutality. Did he treat them the same way?

  There is hope, Zenji thought, surprised.

  General Wainwright and his staff went to meet with General Homma, leaving Zenji with his guards on the dock.

  Zenji’s face hurt like fire. He spotted a wooden box and sat. The guards did not object.

  He removed his damaged glasses and tried to reshape them. He cleaned the dusty lenses with his shirt and wiped blood from a cut on his face.

  And waited.

  General Wainwright’s meeting took a little over an hour.

  As he and his staff returned, the guards made Zenji stand.

  “They treat you all right?” the general asked.

  “Fine. We just waited.” This time he remembered not to add sir.

  “How’s that eye?”

  “I’ll live. Thank you.”

  General Wainwright grunted and stepped down onto the boat. When everyone was aboard, a young Japanese lieutenant jumped in after them.

  He smiled at Zenji.

  Zenji nodded.

  “Don’t worry,” the lieutenant said in English. “I’m just going with you to help with the surrender.”

  Zenji tried not to react. He sat near the bow and turned his cut and bruised cheek, swelling nose, and aching eye into the cool breeze. His shirt was covered with blood.

  The lieutenant sat next to him. “Why are you, a Japanese, in the American army?”

  Zenji kept his gaze on the sea. “I’m not in the army. I’m just an employee. American. Born in Honolulu.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Help with translations.”

  “Like what?”

  “Whatever they give me.”

  “That’s all?”

  Zenji turned to look at him. “That’s all.”

  The lieutenant was quiet a moment. Then, “You might be interested to know that your friends are concerned about you.”

  Zenji cocked his head. “My friends?”

  “From the Momo hotel.”

  Jeese! He knows? “Oh. Yeah … I stayed there for a while.”

  The lieutenant nodded, waited a minute, then added, “Oh, and your other friends wonder about you, too.”

  Zenji gave him a questioning look.

  “You know,” the lieutenant said. “The pilots you interrogated. I guess you did a little more than translate, huh?”

  Zenji strained to hide his shock. The prisoners had been liberated.

  I’m dead.

  If Zenji hadn’t vowed not to give in, he would be suffering the worst fear of his life.

  Instead, he squinted at the lieutenant. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I stayed at the Momo, but I’m not an interrogator.”

  The lieutenant stared at Zenji. “You underestimate me.”

  Zenji shrugged and turned away, praying that the accusation was only a ploy to get him to confess. The pilots he’d interrogated could certainly identify him. But they weren’t here. How could this lieutenant know for sure that Zenji was the one who’d interrogated them?

  It didn’t matter anyway. It was their word against his. Zenji had his story and nothing about it was going to change.

  The lieutenant smiled and looked out at the sea.

  To keep his mind from wandering into dangerous territory, Zenji turned his thoughts to something good. Safe. Far away.

  Ma.

  He checked—the lieutenant wasn’t looking. He removed the photo and Ma’s poem from his wallet. Looking at the photo of Ken and Nami, he thought, first thing when I get home I’ll visit them.

  He read Ma’s poem and looked out over the smooth sea.

  No matter where he was, she would be watching over him.

  But even with his vow, fear stirred deep inside. If he stumbled, he would die. No … it would be worse than death … torture … then death. They would be merciless.

  He, too, might beg to die.

  On the morning of May 7, 1942, Zenji, General Wainwright, his staff and officers were lined up inside Malinta Tunnel with their backs to the wall, waiting for the arrival of General Homma. The official surrender. Zenji’s skin prickled with tension.

  A hushed whisper.

  A cough, a mumble.

  “Keep it down!” General Wainwright snapped.

  Silence filled the cool interior, a giant coffin.

  Zenji, on the general’s right, could sense the man’s profound dignity. He honored the terrible position the general found himself in, waiting for the inevitable, where he would surrender his command and the ceremonial pearl-handled pistol.

  Yet even now, General Wainwright, like Colonel Olsten, worried about Zenji.

  “Keep the lowest possible profile,” he whispered. “I will demand that they treat you as a civilian.”

  Zenji nodded. “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

  “We’re going to get through this.”

  Zenji looked him in the eye, hoping that was true. He nodded.

  “There are rules in war,” the general added.

  Right. Like punching someone in the face after they’ve surrendered. Zenji could only imagine what the general was thinking. He wanted to say how sorry he was, that he understood that there’d been nothing more the general could have done—except die; that it was agony to surrender.

  But the general had chosen life for his men.

  They stood, waiting.

  An hour passed.

  Tick-tick-tick.

  Part of the humiliation.

  Make them wait and wonder and sweat and fear. Break them down like the pitiful dogs they are.

  Sounds of men on the move began to echo through the tunnel.

  “Stand tall,” the general said to his men. “Don’t show them that they have frightened or intimidated you. They want to see your fear. That’s their pleasure. Keep your heads held high at all times and never provoke them by looking them in the eye.”

  Boots.

  Many boots. Boots with metal taps on them. Marching in unison, making as much noise as possible.<
br />
  Closer.

  Louder.

  Zenji tried to still his hands, hating how they always shook when fear struck.

  With terrifying precision the Thirty-Seventh Infantry Battalion marched into view—high-stepping in unison, arms swinging, taps thundering!

  Each Japanese soldier wore a cap with strange flaps that hung over the ears, making the men appear even more sinister.

  “Good God!” someone gasped.

  Zenji squeezed his hands into fists. A terrible weakness sucked at his legs. He had to concentrate to stand and not faint.

  He swayed, growing dizzy.

  No! They’re just men. They’re trying to intimidate us. It’s just noise. Ceremony. Be strong. Do not fail.

  The battalion tramped in as one perfect unit.

  On and on they came, two hundred strong, at least.

  Once the commanding officer stood abreast of General Wainwright, he raised a hand. The battalion halted in absolute precision and turned to face the Americans.

  Silence blossomed and filled the tunnel.

  Zenji nearly stopped breathing.

  It was not General Homma who faced General Wainwright, but a mere lieutenant. Another devastating humiliation.

  Saying nothing, and contemptuously looking away from the general, the lieutenant held out his hand.

  General Wainwright, who towered over the lieutenant, slowly, and with incredible grace, drew the pearl-handled pistol from its holster and handed it over, grip first.

  Zenji’s eyes filled with tears. He could not stop them.

  The lieutenant grabbed the pistol and carelessly handed it back to a sergeant. He turned away from General Wainwright and, smirking, walked down the line of Americans with his sergeant. At the end, the sergeant removed a folded note from his pocket and handed it to the lieutenant.

  The lieutenant opened it, and looked back down the line.

  “Watanabe! Step forward.”

  Inside, Zenji staggered.

  Step forward.

  He closed his eyes, breathed, and broke rank.

  The lieutenant pinned his gaze on Zenji and strolled toward him, hands clasped behind his back.

  Zenji steeled himself.

  It was as if he were in a dream, watching it all through his smudgy glasses. He saw his death—a public beheading. A disgrace to his race.