“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Zenji bowed.
The colonel glared.
“You are not paying attention to your duties. You must do better!”
He slapped the table and stood.
Zenji bowed. “I will work harder, Colonel. I promise.”
The colonel stormed away.
Please him! Escape depends on the freedom he gives you.
Do better.
Weeks passed into 1945. April.
Zenji’s cooking improved, but Colonel Fujimoto flew into fits over the smallest disruptions. The war had moved into the islands of Okinawa, where Zenji’s parents were from. And Manila was now a raging war zone. The Americans were winning, and would soon head toward Baguio and other parts of Luzon. Yamashita was making plans to retreat even deeper into the mountains.
Zenji knew they would all be starving, and wouldn’t waste food on him.
Time to run.
Days later, as the Japanese prepared to evacuate Baguio, Zenji found himself alone in the church. The colonel had ordered him to destroy all remaining files and pack everything else.
Zenji stole a courier’s pouch and filled it with what he’d hidden away. Grains of rice, a handful of rations.
What else, what else?
A bowl. A spoon.
A kitchen knife.
A small first-aid kit.
A pistol!
He found it in the colonel’s room. He had no idea what kind it was, and he could find no ammunition. He’d have to live with whatever ammo was already loaded.
He jammed the pistol into the pouch and placed it in a box, which he hid in the pile of discarded boxes from the destroyed files. No one would look there.
Two nights later, a grim colonel gathered his staff in the church. “Manila has fallen. The Americans are coming here. We leave in three days to fight them in the hills. Anything you can’t carry, destroy.”
Manila has fallen!
“You!” Colonel Fujimoto snapped at Zenji. “Build a fire. Burn everything.”
Zenji’s eyes slid toward the pile of empty boxes.
“Not those. Only what the enemy might use. Now!”
“Yes, sir!” Zenji said. Thank God, the colonel still thought of him as one of his own.
He got a fire going.
It stayed alive for two full days as they burned everything that should not fall into the hands of the enemy.
Zenji’s stash remained hidden in the pile of rubbish.
How would he retrieve it when the time came?
As he tended the fire, fear nearly overcame him.
He was so close.
He began to sweat.
The colonel noticed. “What’s wrong with you?”
Zenji froze.
The colonel came closer.
“I … sir … I’m … I’m sick.”
“Sick?”
The colonel stepped back.
“Yes, sir. It started last night. Don’t get close. I wouldn’t want you to catch it.… It will pass soon.”
Another plan brewed.
The next morning Zenji was awakened by a kick from one of the staff. “Up!”
He nodded and rose to his elbows.
The colonel appeared. “We leave in an hour.”
Zenji looked up with heavy eyes. “My sickness … worse, sir.”
The colonel squatted and placed his hand on Zenji’s forehead. He frowned. “Can you walk?”
Zenji faked an effort to sit, but fell back. “I’m sorry, sir.
Too weak … leave me. I will recover … and find you.”
“Colonel!” someone called. “They’re moving.”
“Kobayashi!” the colonel shouted.
Kobayashi, a spineless clerk who had never been friendly to Zenji, hurried over. “Sir?”
“Watanabe has a fever. Stay with him until he is better. Give him no more than one day to recover, then both of you catch up with us.”
“Stay here, sir?”
“One day! No more,” the colonel snapped.
“Yes, sir.”
“Go find a weapon. You know how to shoot?”
“No, sir. I’m an office worker.”
“It’s easy. Pull the trigger.”
Colonel Fujimoto turned back to Zenji, who lay looking helplessly ill on his cot. “One day. Is that clear? No choice. You will rejoin us. Kobayashi will see to it. If the Filipinos don’t shoot you, he will.”
Zenji knew he would, too, but he was surprised to hear such harsh words from the colonel. Desperation.
He gave the colonel a weak but grateful look. “Oh, yes, sir. We will find you.”
The colonel hurried out.
With luck, Zenji thought, we will never meet again.
By the end of the day every Japanese soldier in Baguio was gone. Only Kobayashi remained.
And a whole city of unfriendly citizens.
The next morning Kobayashi was near frantic. He hadn’t slept at all. “I can’t wait. You’re not worth it!” He touched the pistol tucked under his belt.
Zenji kept his mouth shut. Kobayashi could easily shoot him and tell Fujimoto that Zenji had tried to escape.
“Get up! We’re going.”
Zenji started to get up, thinking: I could take that gun away.
Don’t chance it.
“Too sick,” he said.
Kobayashi pulled the pistol and aimed it at Zenji’s face. “We’re leaving! Now!”
Zenji gambled on Kobayashi’s weakness. “Sick … shoot me.”
Kobayashi’s hand shook, and dropped.
He simply ran.
Zenji gave him ten minutes.
He leaped off the cot and pulled his pouch from the pile of boxes, then searched for anything else he could use.
Nights would be cold. He grabbed the thin blanket off his cot, slung it over his shoulder, and secured it under the pouch strap.
Outside, a fog had set in. The people of Baguio had begun to emerge. They’d kept out of sight while their town had been occupied.
Zenji was a free man for the first time in over two years.
He jogged through the foggy streets along the edge of the trees, looking for a trail into the vast jungle where he could hide.
He could find only thin paths made by animals.
He picked one and followed it into the pine trees.
The pines dipped into ravines and the landscape soon turned into a much thicker jungle. The fog burned off and sunlight streamed down through the canopy, splattering flecks of light over the knee-high understory. Vines fell like ropes, twisting around trees, threatening to choke them.
The jungle murmured with the sounds of birds, insects, toads, bats, and what all else, he had no clue. Were there poisonous spiders and snakes on this island?
Be alert. Be sharp.
In a way, Zenji found the jungle beautiful, as he pushed deeper and deeper in.
After an hour he stopped and looked around. Which way was he heading? His sense of direction was off. He needed a compass and hadn’t thought to find one before leaving.
Not smart.
He pushed ahead, concerned, but not discouraged. He slowed as the jungle became wilder, more impenetrable. Now he knew why Filipinos carried machetes.
The sun was barely visible. He hoped its arc would give him directional clues. But the trees were so thick.
For all he knew he was heading right back to Baguio.
By the time night fell he was hopelessly lost.
He stumbled into a small clearing and sat, completely exhausted. Living with the colonel had made him soft.
He took off his glasses and cleaned them on a corner of the blanket. Daylight was soon gone.
The darkness was deeper than any he’d ever known. He could not see a single star, nor was there the slightest glow, anywhere.
Noises.
He needed a fire.
He had a few matches, but he’d forgotten to think about gathering something to burn while there was still enough light to see.
On hands and knees he felt the ground around him.
Nothing.
He reached into his pouch, searching for something to eat. A few stale crackers.
He ate, tongue dry. Parched.
The water in the canteen was all he’d thought to carry. Bad planning. He should have spent more time considering jungle survival. He’d just figured he would drink from a stream.
There was no stream.
The water tasted like silk, cool and clean. But he couldn’t have much, not until he had a source to replace what he drank. He screwed the cap on extra tight, savoring what little water he’d taken in.
The temperature dropped, and he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. That first night in the jungle, Zenji slept less than an hour. The rest of it was filled with bugs crawling over him, terrifying unidentifiable noises, and impenetrable darkness.
Was it possible to get lost and never find your way out?
When the jungle began to reappear early the next morning, Zenji’s courage returned as well. Why, he wondered, did darkness bring such debilitating fear, and hope return with daylight?
Light and dark were more powerful than he’d ever imagined.
First thing, he searched for firewood, gathering twigs and small broken branches, none dry enough to burn. He’d have to find sunny spots where the heat would evaporate the moisture before dark.
He stuffed the sticks into his pouch and slung his blanket over his shoulder. Which way to go?
No trails.
He sucked in a deep breath and shoved ahead. Don’t fight it. Losing battle, now and forever. Simply move in directions offered by the landscape.
On the second night he managed a small fire. He boiled rice, using the least amount of canteen water possible.
He ate and collapsed into sleep, and the next morning got up and forged on, to where, he had no idea.
On the third night as he made his small fire, he sensed something nearby.
He sat without moving.
Something.
Human. He couldn’t explain why.
He stood and squinted into the darkness. “Who’s there?”
Dancing reflections from the fire, nothing more.
It was too quiet. The usual night noises had been replaced by a stillness that made his skin crawl.
Slowly, Zenji eased down and snuffed out the fire.
He moved away from the embers, sat, and listened, blanket tight around him.
Hours passed.
Finally, he slept.
At dawn he awoke with a spear point resting on his heart.
They were small men with red teeth, wearing loincloths and a thin cloak over one shoulder.
How many? Ten? Twenty? Zenji was too scared to count.
A man with Zenji’s pistol stood behind the one with the spear, holding the gun loosely.
Zenji rose to his elbows, his eyes locked onto the man’s whose spear touched his skin.
Were these the mountain people he’d read about? Who lived deep in the jungle and didn’t like to be seen? Farmers, who hunted? Not headhunters. Please, no.
The man with the spear stepped back. More men silently appeared. They had hair that hung to their ears, cut off evenly all the way around.
Zenji got to his knees, and slowly stood.
The man with the spear reached out and touched Zenji’s chest, as if to see if he was real.
He turned to his men and spoke.
The man turned back to Zenji. “Toy edapo-an mo?”
Zenji smiled. Be friendly.
“Nganto y ngagan mo?” the man said.
Zenji shook his head. What?
The man tapped his own chest. “Abir.” He nodded to Zenji.
“Abir,” Zenji repeated, and the man smiled, red teeth gleaming. He tapped his chest again.
Zenji grinned, and tapped his own chest. “Zenji.”
The men repeated it, laughing at how hard it was to say the letter Z.
“Seh’si! Seh’si!” they chanted, making sweeping motions, as if in their language Zenji meant “broom.”
Zenji played along, sweeping the ground.
The men giggled.
If they were headhunters, they were happy ones.
Abir cautiously touched Zenji’s glasses.
“Glasses,” Zenji said, taking them off and letting Abir hold them.
Abir put them on. He squinted and took them off, shaking his head, handing them back.
Zenji laughed.
Abir motioned for Zenji to follow them.
Zenji hesitated.
Abir motioned again, smiling.
I’m so lost I’d probably die, anyway, Zenji thought. I’m hungry. Need water. My canteen is empty.
He’d have to trust that they wouldn’t shrink his head or boil him in a tub.
He followed the red-toothed men deeper into the jungle on a trail so slight that he would never have picked it up. But there it was. How was it that he’d never spotted anything like a path? They were probably all over the place, yet known only to these men.
Soon they came to a village of wood-sided huts with heavily grassed roofs. Old men, children, and women stopped what they were doing and froze.
He smiled at them.
Abir said something to Zenji, raising his fingers to his mouth.
Ah, yes. Zenji nodded. He was hungry.
Using his hands, Zenji asked for a drink.
Abir beamed and ran off to return with a wooden bowl of clear water.
Zenji drank deeply as the villagers watched.
He felt like some lost soul from the streets of Manila. He was filthy. Probably smelled like a garbage can.
Zenji handed the empty bowl back, and Abir motioned for Zenji to follow him to a hut. He nodded toward the entry.
“Go in?” Zenji pointed to the opening.
Abir nodded.
Zenji crawled through the small entrance.
Inside, the hard-packed dirt floor was swept clean. There was a mat and another bowl of water.
He crawled back out.
Abir mimicked sleeping, and made snoring sounds, which got a big laugh out of everyone.
Zenji figured he was saying, Take a nap. “Thank you.” He crawled back in. Someone sat by the entry, either to guard him or to attend to his needs.
He fell asleep before he could figure it out.
It was evening when he awoke.
Outside, Abir had been sitting on a rock staring at the hut. “Mayatya davi.”
“Yeah,” Zenji said, standing. “Sounds good.” He rubbed his face. “How long did I sleep?”
Abir grinned. He was probably the happiest guy Zenji had ever met.
The sun had set, but the sky still held some light.
Abir led Zenji to what looked like a feast.
A fire, bowls of food.
Abir had Zenji sit next to him. The men who’d found him in the jungle clumped around them, munching on red nuts. That’s what colored their teeth.
A man brought a large bowl to Abir, who seemed to be the leader, or chief, though he looked only thirty or so.
Abir took the bowl and with his fingers scooped up a small portion of food. He ate and those around him nodded in apparent satisfaction.
He handed the bowl to Zenji.
Zenji took the bowl and looked into it. Rice, soaked in … blood?
He glanced at Abir, who grinned and motioned for Zenji to partake. For a second Zenji thought he’d pass the bowl on. But he couldn’t dishonor or embarrass Abir.
He scooped up a portion the same size as Abir had taken. It was warm. Faking delight, Zenji sucked the rice off his fingers, tasting the metallic tang of blood. He struggled to keep from gagging, swallowing quickly, thinking of the harbor at Honolulu, the stars in the sky at night, Aiko, Freddy, Benny, dancing with Mina, anything to take his mind off his buzzing taste buds.
He smiled and passed the bowl to the man next to him.
And so it went, the bowl passing from man to man until it was empty.
The tang of blood remained on his tongue.
When the feast began, he ate and ate.
The next round of rice had no blood, and was the best rice he’d ever had in his life. He had no idea what the meat was. He leaned close to the man next to him and pointed at it.
“What is this?”
The man grinned, as if to say the meat was indeed good, served only on special occasions.
Zenji said, “But what is it? Goat?” He mimicked small horns and a goatee with his fingers.
The man laughed and pointed at a dog with his chin.
Dog?
They were eating dog!
Hold it, he told himself.
This is not Nami!
He closed his eyes and sat with that thought for a moment. He was starving. The food was keeping him alive, and for that he was grateful.
After the feast, Zenji thanked Abir over and over.
This seemed to please Abir.
Sleeping in the hut with no worry of snakes was as good as sleeping in his bed at home.
* * *
The next day he studied the movement of the sun, trying to discern direction. Where was he? Which way should he go? If these people would let him go.
He tried to ask Abir where Baguio was, but Abir waved generally in all directions, as if to say everywhere.
Not working.
Zenji sighed and nodded thanks anyway.
He stayed with Abir’s people for a month, as far as he could tell. Maybe more.
During that time he watched what the mountain people ate and where they got their food and water. He had to learn survival skills before he left. If it took him weeks to find his way out, and it probably would, at least he would stand a better chance if he knew a few things.
He tried to get his pistol back, pointing his finger like a gun. But as before, Abir just smiled and waved in every direction.
Occasionally, Zenji heard gunfire in the distant hills. American forces must have caught up with the Japanese. Who was winning?
It was time. He had to move on. Find the Americans. He could tell them that Yamashita was desperate, and had gone deeper into the hills.
Though by now, everything had probably changed.
Still, Zenji had to find his way out.
Leaving Abir was not easy. But when Zenji went through the motions of saying goodbye, the mountain people took no offense. They seemed to want whatever Zenji wanted.
“Thank you,” Zenji said, his hand placed firmly on Abir’s shoulder.
Hunt for the Bamboo Rat Page 18