Dawn of a Thousand Nights

by Tricia N. Goyer

  And it was somewhere in those words that Libby realized her plea had turned into a prayer. Start with what you know, George had said. Here was another thing she knew for sure: She needed God’s strength to hold herself together until Dan returned.

  Eight

  U.S. FORCES IN PHILIPPINES

  MUCH LARGER THAN REALIZED

  The size of the air force under MacArthur’s command is a military secret, but it admittedly has been greatly strengthened in recent months…. A few years ago, many military experts held that the Philippines could not be held against a Japanese attack. Today, few such assertions are heard.

  An invasion could not even be attempted without withdrawing large numbers of troops from China, and even then, the army being whipped into shape in the Philippines might well make an invasion too costly to be profitable.

  The American Far East forces, it is believed, would be a “hard nut to crack.”

  John G. Norris, Staff Writer

  Excerpt from the Washington Post, November 19, 1941

  The Japanese recruits lounged around their cement barracks, happy to be given a day without training. The popular song “Kantar of Ina” carried on the noonday air, escaping from the open windows of the officers’ quarters. Natsuo listened as his bunkmate sang along, “I may look like a crook and a ruffian. But witness, O Moon, the splendor of my heart.”

  In his mind, Natsuo joined in with the next refrain. O Moon of my homeland, I am newly reborn. Mirror the brightness of my soul tonight.

  Many men spent their free time writing letters home, but Natsuo knew his father would consider it foolishness. Natsuo was here to train, to become a fine soldier and make his family proud.

  His notes from his week’s classes were spread before him on his mat. The lectures were meant to sharpen the fighting spirit of the warrior, just as physical drills honed the body. On the battlefield, only one thing mattered—to fight for the emperor, their great one who watched over his children. Fight for him or, most honorably of all, die for him.

  They’d been reminded in class today that any soldier taken prisoner, who later managed to return to Japan, was subject to court-martial and a possible death penalty. Even if the penalty was not carried out, anyone who returned would be so thoroughly ostracized he might as well be dead.

  The teacher’s words had imprinted themselves in Natsuo’s mind: “Soldiers are supposed to give their lives for the cause, not grovel in enemy prison camps.”

  On one hand, the words were no different from the patriotic training he’d received in his primary school near Kobe. Yet later teachings—false guidance—conflicted inside him. In America, professors had spoken of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” What foolishness such notions were. Yet disloyal memories of those lectures made his mind wander into forbidden places.

  Saburo, another of Natsuo’s childhood friends, strolled over to his mat. “A few of us are heading to town. I hear there’s a pretty girl who works at the movie house. We’re catching a ride with one of the delivery drivers in exchange for a promised bottle of sake. Will you come?”

  Natsuo noted his friend’s shirttail hanging out and diverted his gaze. “I’m finishing my studies, then turning in early. Besides, it’s a long trip, and there’s a chance you might miss the nightly inspection.” Natsuo set his chin in determination, knowing his hard work would be rewarded, and remembering that disobedience brought a slap in the face, a hard whack over the head with a bamboo stick, or sometimes worse.

  Saburo nodded and smiled. “Once a noodle boy, always a noodle boy. You have a weak spine, Natsuo.” His round face contorted into a smirk. “Grow up. Stop worrying about Mama and Papa’s approval.”

  Natsuo knew Saburo’s words deserved no response. But his friend was right; Natsuo did view his instructors as his parents now. And the emperor as his great father, who asked for only one thing: Hakko Icbiu, “the whole world under one roof.” Peace would only come to their nation, to their lives, once their enemies bent on weakened knees, submitting under imperial domination. But in order for that to happen, the emperor’s children must commit unswervingly to his cause.

  Saburo strode out of the barracks onto the dusty road where he and a few other recruits would hitch a ride from the transport truck. It grated on Natsuo’s nerves that his friend could care so little about their duty. Their rank as soldiers was one they held for life … or until their death. Gyokusai, the soldier’s mandate, held that they were required to fight to the end for the emperor. Gyokusai meant “the breaking of a jewel”—a crushing of what was most valuable for a greater cause. The thought both frightened and excited him.

  Music played on in the background, yet as Natsuo attempted to focus his mind on his country, on Father Emperor, on gyokusai, the music reminded him of Saburo’s offer and of the fun he used to have near the UCLA campus. He remembered school dances and pretty American girls with swishing skirts, bared calves, and high-heeled shoes. And despite the training manual open before him, Natsuo’s mind recalled the female laughter that tittered along with American jazz tunes. And one young woman in particular, who didn’t seem to mind that he was Japanese. Clara was her name, and they’d danced the night away more than once.

  Thoughts like these angered Natsuo, but he kept that, too, bottled up inside. Yet no matter how mad it made him, he couldn’t help but wander amongst the memories, strolling back to lazy days before cultural burdens weighed him down. Before death was the focal point of all his thoughts.

  Dan’s trip to the Philippines from Hawaii had been boring and lonely. He’d heard rumors of Japanese warships following off the port side—at least that would’ve broken up the monotony, yet nothing had come of it.

  The ship they piggybacked on had been designed as a floating runway for planes like the Douglas SBD-2 Dauntless bombers. Instead, their P-40s were loaded up, heading for their new home. The ship sailed safely past the Marshall Islands, Cook Islands, Guam, and then on toward the sunset to the Philippines.

  On the way, the sailor in the bunk next to Dan, a fresh-faced country boy who admitted to being only sixteen, had become so stricken with anxiety over possible attack that any sudden noise made him hit the deck. Then there was the kid on the bunk above Dan—the bunk inches away from the ceiling—who struggled with seasickness. Dan didn’t savor the nights he awoke to the sound of puke hitting a pan.

  Instead, he often found himself on the deck, watching the roiling sea. The whipping winds threatened to carry him overboard, but the loneliness thrashed him even harder. He wrote Libby numerous letters signed “Somewhere at Sea” and planned to mail them upon landing.

  The ground swayed as he disembarked, and humidity wrapped around him like a thick blanket. Also, he discovered, the sun was even more direct than it had been in Hawaii. Beads of perspiration trickled down his temples as he and the other pilots loaded their belongings into the waiting jeeps. Their first stop, before heading to Clark Field, was Manila.

  “I’ve heard that because of the heat, we don’t work in the afternoons.” Gabe ran a hand down his cheek. “Short days. Long nights. Which would be fine with me, if only my wife were here.”

  “Ah, I’m not thinking about work yet. Just trying to let the beauty sink in.” Dan eyed the unique landscape, making mental notes to relate to Libby. “So lush—even more beautiful than Hawaii.”

  On the ride into town, the countryside looked calm and primitive. Birds chattered in towering acacia trees. Native women beat their brightly colored sarongs on the rocks at the muddy river. Naked little boys dangled their fingers in the cool water as they floated on rafts of coconuts.

  But within the city limits of Manila, the movement of the crowds surprised Dan. Their driver found a space along a crowded street and pulled over to park. Dan, Gabe, and the others climbed out.

  “Captain said you all can spend a day in town before heading up to the base.” The driver sank into the seat and lit a cigarette. “I’ll stay here and watch your things. I think you’ll li
ke it—land of coconut palms and violet sunsets.” He nodded to the narrow dirt streets that bustled with even more congestion than Honolulu. “No soldier should miss the pleasure of seeing Manila.”

  They walked along, and Dan smiled as he scanned the crowds. Instead of soldiers and sailors striding around in matching uniforms, varieties of native dress brought color and interest. Turbaned men hurried in majestic strides among the crowds of Japanese, Chinese, and Filipinos. Blind beggars huddled against the old Spanish walls. Gabe stopped at the first one he saw, offering him a few coins and a firm handshake. The man’s unseeing eyes peered up at them, and he nodded his thanks.

  Ponies wearing tinkling bells pulled two-wheel carriages and were the most used form of transportation. The whole town reeked of barnyard scents, and the men learned to watch their step. Taxis also filled the streets; their bumpers, hoods, and windshields so decorated with flags, banners, and crucifixes that excited drivers had to crane their heads out side windows in order to see the road in front of them.

  “I wonder where everyone’s going.” Dan watched a young boy leading a pony cart piled with packages. The boy was cheerfully singing a tune to match his steps.

  “I’ve heard for three pesos you can get a Filipino-made knife, and twenty will buy you a suit.” Gabe glanced into a store window as they passed.

  Dan paused before a vendor on the street selling orchids. The scent reminded him of Libby. “I’ll take some.” He fished a peso from his pocket, and then he lifted the flowers to his face and imagined her weaving the flowers through her hair.

  Dan smiled at the memory and stroked his finger over the satin petals. As they crossed the busy street, an American soldier walked by with a beautiful Filipino girl on his arm. They both glanced at the flowers in Dan’s hand, giving him a knowing look. Despite the cars that honked, urging them to hurry their crossing, Dan wanted to stop them and explain. To tell them his girl was actually back in Hawaii, and he’d bought the flowers because they reminded him of her. But they’d already passed, their arms wrapped around each other, their laughter intermingling with the noise of the street.

  Then Dan spotted her. She looked like any other young Filipino girl except for her large eyes that were the softest shade of blue. She waited at the street corner for her turn to cross. Dan hurried toward her. He lowered himself on one knee, bringing him eye-to-eye with the youngster. “Here, these are for you.”

  The girl looked over her shoulder, as if believing his words were intended for someone else. “Thank you,” she said in clear English. “You nice GI.”

  Dan rose and patted her shoulder, then caught up with his friend.

  “We have one more place we need to visit before meeting back at the jeeps.” Dan pulled out a hand-drawn map that the driver had given him. “These are directions to Intramuros, the famed Walled City and showpiece of Manila.”

  Thankfully, the jeep had dropped them off less than a mile from its entrance, and they arrived by foot in a matter of minutes.

  “Look at this, will ya?” Dan pointed to the walls, chiseled out of some type of polished stone. They appeared to be nearly twenty feet high with a base twice as wide. Watchtowers stood at the corners, and massive wooden gates with carved lintels faced the four points of the compass.

  Gabe stopped to read a plaque inside the entryway. “Says the Spaniards built this part of the city back in the sixteenth century. Guess they occupied it for a while.” He caught up with Dan, and they walked through the streets in silent reverence. In the center of the walled city they discovered a grand cathedral. Voices from inside sang hymns in the Spanish-sounding native language, Tagalog. Though he couldn’t understand the words, the emotions they released washed a soft peace over Dan, something he hadn’t felt since leaving Hawaii.

  Gabe paused in front of the massive steps. “Do you want to go in?”

  “Go ahead.” Dan motioned with a nod of his chin. “I’ll wait here.” Though he felt drawn to the music flowing through the doors, something inside him felt uneasy. Perhaps it was the murals on the walls that too often illustrated a suffering Savior. Or the large crucifixes that portrayed a weak and dying man.

  Though Dan had attended church for years as a child, the pieces of the spiritual struggle never seemed to fit together in his mind. How could a God of love allow such horrible things to happen to His own Son? The suffering, the pain. It wasn’t something Dan could connect with—or wanted to. He settled onto a stone step and pushed the thoughts of the pierced Jesus out of his mind.

  Dan eyed the Filipinos who bustled within the walled city as they had done for hundreds of years. Colorful long skirts swooshed around the women’s ankles. Fancy cotton blouses were buttoned to their necks, and their lips wore warm smiles. The Filipino men wore baggy trousers and sandals, and every man or woman who passed Dan offered a wide grin and a wave. Their eyes also held a special twinkle as if relating, All is well. The Americans are here to protect us.

  Dan returned their smiles, feeling a sense of peace knowing that inside the church building Gabriel was offering up prayers for their unit’s safety, in addition to prayers for his family back home. He hoped Gabe also prayed for those left behind in Hawaii.

  The tent city to which Dan and his friends were assigned seemed to have sprouted overnight on the perimeter of Clark Field. Just a few days earlier it had been a large parade ground. Now it was an ocean of white canvas spread out as far as his eye could see.

  Each structure looked like a tent house with a wooden floor and supports. Canvas stretched over the frame, with a door and two window openings on each side. Three metal cots were lined up against each of two walls, and Dan and five others now called this place home.

  “Bayanai, here, is our houseboy.” Irvin, one of Dan’s roommates, pointed to the young Filipino who sat in the corner. “He takes care of our shoes and clothes and keeps the tent shipshape. He also washes and presses our uniforms twice a day. We change often because of the humidity.”

  The new bunkmate continued in what Dan assumed to be a southern drawl. “The best part is our siesta from one to four. It’s too dang hot to work around this place, so we just nap or write letters home.”

  Another soldier strode into the room, removed his cap, and tossed it onto the large rectangle of trunks in the middle of the room. The trunks held their gear and doubled as tables or extra seating space.

  “Did y’all arrive with the new shipment of planes?”

  Dan could see he was a pilot by the uniform. Tall and slender, he placed a booted foot on top of one of the trunks and fanned himself with an oriental-looking fan. “I’m Oliver, by the way. But everyone just calls me Tex.” He stretched out his hand, and Dan shook it vigorously.

  “Yeah, we arrived with them just this morning.” Dan nodded toward the others. “I hear we’ve been pulled in to make defending this island possible.”

  “That’s the plan, I guess.” Oliver swatted at a pesky fly with his fan. “Someone told me that with this newest shipment, we now have the largest concentration of U.S. Army aircraft outside the U.S. And the best planes to boot. Over a hundred P-40 fighters and a couple dozen bombers by last count.”

  “Only problem is we don’t have any air-raid plan, or antiaircraft guns to protect them.” Irvin pulled out a cigarette from his shirt pocket, lit it, and took a long drag. “And I heard some of your P-40s aren’t even flyable. The army’s gone and shipped them without cooling fluid. Dumb move. Our only hope is that we strike ’em first.” He tapped the ashes from his cigarette onto the floor. “If I were running this joint, I’d take our current state of alert seriously and get down to business.”

  “Ah, come on, you really know how to sour things, don’t you?” Tex sank onto his bunk. “Who says the Japs are gonna strike at all? The squint eyes would be nuts. I mean, how can runts from such a tiny island think of pairing up against the good ol’ U.S. of A.?”

  “Just stating the facts.” Irvin spoke slowly. “Trying to bring a little reality to the sit-u-a-
tion.”

  Soldiers are the same everywhere, Dan realized as he unpacked. Each with his own opinion, his own preconceived ideas of how the army should be run. But it didn’t bother him. Let them think what they want to.

  As for Dan, he only had two desires. First, spending more time in the air than on land. And second, getting back to his girl as soon as possible.

  Nine

  JAPAN RATTLES SWORD

  BUT ECHO IS PIANISSIMO

  Over in Japan the sword rattling goes on with all sorts of threats and dire predictions of what will happen if the United States tries to tell Tokyo what to do; yet the echo in Washington does not hurt the eardrums. The Japanese spokesmen in the American capital wish to continue the negotiations with the United States.

  Obviously, one may argue that Tokyo is seeking to gain time in which to get into better shape for the threatened war. One may also argue, however, that Japan does not wish the war.

  In a difficult and ticklish position, it appears that the State Department and President Roosevelt have handled the Japanese well up to the present. They have not been impressed by the Japanese threats.

  Edwin L. James

  Excerpt from the New York Times, December 7, 1941

  Dan had already been gone nearly two months when Libby received his first batch of letters. She loved opening the thin red, white, and blue-trimmed envelopes marked “Air Mail.” The first dozen were those he’d written while out at sea. After that, she received long, detailed reports about the beauty of the island and Dan’s daily routines, which included flying planes in the mornings and taking long naps in the afternoons.

  As she read each letter over and over, Libby smiled at how Dan’s handwriting changed by location. She’d notice a food stain on the page and know he was writing during mealtime. His writing slanted to the left when he was on the bunk, and to the right when he was in a hammock under one of the trees on base. By the size of the print, she could even tell which letters had been written by flashlight, while his roommates slept, in comparison to those written in daylight or by electric bulb.