80 SURVIVORS OF “DEATH MARCH”
Hamilton Field, Calif., Sept 25 (U.P.)—Three transport planes carrying 80 survivors of the Bataan death march and Wake Island … landed here today.
The roar of the planes failed to drown out the happy shouts of relatives as they watched the craft land. Many of the liberated prisoners were weeping as they stepped from the ramps.
Excerpt from the Washington Post, September 26, 1945
Dan struggled to choke back tears when his booted feet climbed the metal steps of the airplane. He took his seat next to a window and waited for the rumble of the engines to tell him they would soon take off. He’d made it. He was leaving Manila, going home. He could hardly believe it.
As each minute in the sky brought him closer, he found himself wiping his face with the back of his hand, blotting out the tears from his clean, shaven cheeks.
Memories filled his mind of saying good-bye to Libby on that rainy morning, the bombings at Clark Field, the death march, the hell ships, the mines. He caught his breath—Gabe.
Oh, buddy. I wouldn’t have made it without you.
He remembered the months in solitary and his final conversation with Natty. Lord, please take care of him.
Dan looked at his thin, weak hands. Would they ever be strong again? Will I ever be the man I used to be? His jailers had broken his body—memories plagued him of beatings, hunger, and the malaria that still weakened him. But his body would heal. Good food, rest, the army’s best medicine. He was already on the mend.
The years imprisoned had also broken his heart. The verbal abuse, being treated as less than human. And so many friends gone. Tex, José, Paulo, Tony. His chest tightened.
Dan stared out the window at the sun breaking away from the velvet darkness, rising over the pink and orange clouds. His heart? Well, that was being healed too.
He opened his Bible and took out the old, crinkled, faded picture of Libby. Along with that silly pocket-knife, it had been his only possession for so many months. Libby.
How many tears had he cried over that photo? Was the image real? Could it be that in just a few hours he’d come face-to-face with the person his heart had longed for most?
Dan exited the airplane into the cool California morning and gazed out over the crowds amassed on the tarmac of Hamilton Field, the tears returning again. They flooded down Dan’s cheeks and dripped off his chin. Home. After all that darkness.
His knees felt weak, and he gripped the handrail to steady himself. C’mon, legs, don’t fail me now. The warm sunshine kissed his face, and all he could do was whisper, “Thank You. Thank You …”
He took in the sounds of the crowd of mothers, fathers, wives, sons, daughters on the tarmac—all waving, cheering, most weeping.
He waved and scanned the faces, noticing a woman and three young boys screaming, “Daddy! Daddy!”
The oldest one pointed. “I see him! My dad! Look!” He grabbed the youngest into his arms and pointed again. “That’s your daddy.”
Dan turned away as the woman ran into the soldier’s arms.
He scanned the crowds. Where is she? Where’s Libby?
He finally caught sight of his mother’s frantically waving arms and beaming face. His father stood behind her, and Dan could clearly make out his voice over the crowd. “My son. He’s home. My son!”
Flashbulbs and voices blurred as Dan rushed into his mother’s embrace.
“You’re home, oh, Daniel.” Her body shook; whether from laughter or tears, he couldn’t tell, maybe both. She squeezed his neck so tightly he didn’t know if he’d ever escape. When she finally did release him, she held him at arm’s length. “Oh, you’re so thin.” She wiped his tears with her trembling hands. “But we’ll fix that.”
He placed a warm kiss on her cheek. “Mom, I missed you so much.”
“Enough, woman!” Dan’s dad interrupted. He grabbed Dan into a hug even tighter than his mom’s. “I’m so proud of you, Son. I couldn’t be prouder.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Dan managed to say. “Now, where’s Libby? Isn’t she here?”
His mother’s eyebrows creased. “Dan, dear. She’s waiting in her father’s truck. She’s having a bad day, headaches again. I think it’s all the excitement. Did you get my letter?”
“Yeah, yeah. She has a little vision problem. But she’s alive and breathing, right? Come on. I need to hold my girl.”
Dan hurried through the crowd, hoping his parents trailed behind. He tugged on his pants, wishing he’d gotten a smaller size or he had another notch to tighten his belt. Even after the weeks spent at the hospital in Manila, he was fifty pounds lighter than when he’d entered the service. But he was alive. He was home, and that’s all the mattered.
He moved past the first row of vehicles, looking into truck windows. His heart pounded.
“What took you so long, soldier?” said a voice from behind him. “What’s it been, a thousand nights, at least?”
Dan turned. Years of welled-up emotions flooded him, and instead of whisking her into his arms as he’d imagined a thousand times, he froze. Stared. Her eyes were so beautiful, brown and warm. Her lips looked so soft, warm, kissable. And in her hair she wore an orchid.
He pulled her into his embrace.
“Libby. It’s you.” He breathed in the scent of her. Kissed her hair. Then he set her down and traced the outline of her face. “It’s really you.”
Two weeks after their quiet wedding in Dan’s parents’ backyard and a romantic honeymoon on the Oregon coast, Libby awoke to the sound of Dan’s mother singing from the kitchen. They decided it would be best to stay with his parents awhile—until Dan finished his classes on the GI bill and they could get on their feet.
The smells of pancakes sizzling on a grill brought a smile to Libby’s face.
Sunlight sifted in through the white curtains as she snuggled in closer to Dan. She pressed her cheek against his chest and ran a finger over his muscular arm.
She glanced up at Dan’s model airplanes that she’d seen on her first visit to Ima Jean’s house. At that time Libby hadn’t been sure she’d ever see Dan again. Now … she sighed and sank back into her pillow.
“You awake?” he whispered, brushing the hair from her face.
“Mm-hm.”
“Did you hear that?”
“You mean how your heartbeat quickened as I pulled myself closer?”
He kissed her forehead. “Not only that. The words of the song my mom’s singing.”
“‘Amazing Grace’?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’ve heard them hundreds of times, but …”
“I once was lost, but now I’m found. Was blind but now I see,” Libby whispered.
He pulled her tighter against him. “Yeah, that part. Amazing, isn’t it?”
Epilogue
Libby slid the sunglasses over her eyes and reached into the backseat of the car. She lifted one model airplane off the seat and groaned softly as her expanding girth refused to let her bend to retrieve the other one off the floor.
“Dan, can you reach the Cub for me? It slid down next to the bags of clothes.”
“Junior getting in your way again?” He rubbed her stomach as he scooted past her, his left hand already holding two airplanes of his own.
“Yes, she’s growing so big I’m not even sure if I’m wearing two matching shoes today.”
“It’s a boy, I’m telling you.” Dan placed a hand on the small of Libby’s back and led her toward the rolling waves of the Pacific Ocean.
Libby wasn’t even sure of the name of this beach, but it was a beautiful spot. They were somewhere near Santa Cruz on their way to visit Natsuo’s family. The bags of clothes in the backseat were those their church had collected for Hoshiko’s children, and for other families trying to start a new life after the relocation camps.
Libby breathed in the scent of salty air and lifted her face to the sun already beginning to fade in the western horizon. They’d been driving most of the day along th
e California coast looking for the perfect spot. And they’d found it. A small beach of sand, with a parking area right off the road. Though the beach was peaceful, large waves crashed against jagged rocks in the harbor. Perfect.
Dan’s grip tightened around her side, steadying her as she climbed over a few rocks that lined the shore. “Doing okay, doll face?”
“Mm-hm, doing great.”
It had been two days since Libby’s last headache, and as long as she lay down every few hours to rest her eyes, she pretty much lived life as normal—or as normal as it could be without flying.
Beginning on the day he arrived home, and every day since, Dan found a moment to stop and pray for Libby’s eyes. And his prayers were being answered. The doctor told them that the healing was simply her body doing its work, relieving the swelling around the optic nerve, but they knew better. It was a miracle.
Libby lined up her three planes on the sand next to Dan’s models, out of reach of the waves, and watched as he slid off his shoes, then rolled up his pant legs to his knees. She was thankful for this man of strength, of faith, of prayer. Thankful that instead of holding on to the pain of his war years, he was sharing his memories with church congregations and civic groups—ensuring that the lives of his friends would not be forgotten and encouraging his listeners to forgive. His was a much-needed message for soldiers and civilians alike, as they attempted to begin new lives of peace after years of war.
After every meeting, audience members sought him out—to share their stories, show pictures of their sons or husbands or friends, and to seek prayer. There was one person who had refused to wait until the end of the service to speak with Dan.
It was during a visit to Sacramento that a young, dark-haired fellow hurriedly entered through the back of the church. “Excuse me, Mr. Lukens, sir.” He jogged up the aisle. “But I believe you have my pocketknife.”
Dan had rushed from the platform, pulling Tony into a tight embrace. Then with a wide grin he’d pulled the knife from his pocket. “I’ve been holding it for you, just keeping it safe.”
Even now the memory of their joyful reunion brought a smile to Libby’s face.
When Dan finished rolling up his pant legs, he did the same for Libby.
She wiggled her bare toes in the wet sand, pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head, and glanced into the waves. “It’s strange to think Rose is back across that ocean on that little island again. Who knows, maybe one of these planes will wash up on Ewa Beach.”
“Could happen.” Dan lifted the model of the small Cub off the sand and handed it toward Libby. “Want to go first?”
“Sure.” She looked down at the miniature replica of the plane. It was just like the one she’d flown at John Rodgers Airport. Across the plane’s body she had written In memory of George Abel—start with what you know.
Libby lowered her head and whispered a prayer. A few tears escaped as she cocked back her hand and then let the plane sail into the waves.
“What a throw.” Dan kissed her forehead. “That’s the girl I love.”
Dan was next, picking up a P-40 that he’d dedicated to his friends who lost their lives in the Philippines, launching it into the waves.
With another silent prayer, Libby followed with the model of July’s trainer. And after that, Dan launched the plane he’d crafted especially for Gabe.
After each throw, they’d watch the plane soar, then hit the water, becoming lost in the white foam and mounting waves.
“There are two left.” Libby looked to the matching P-51s. One had Libby written in script on the side, the other D.J. Libby’s chest constricted as Dan handed her the model with her name. She let her fingers trail the cockpit, remembering what it was like climbing in, starting the engine, and soaring into the clouds.
“I don’t know if I can do this, Dan.” She let her hand drop to her side. “The others were our way of saying good-bye. But … but what if God does a miracle? What if we both find ourselves able to fly again?”
Dan plucked his plane from the sand, walked behind Libby, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “Letting them sail is not the same as saying ‘never,’ Libby. Only God knows what’s in store for us. Just think of it as releasing our future into God’s hands.”
Libby turned her head and kissed his arm swung over her shoulder. “That I can do.”
Dan released his embrace and strode into the waves, cocking his arm back in a perfect football player pose.
“Wait!” she called over the sound of gulls approaching from the sea. “Together, on the count of three.”
She wobbled to his side and then cocked her plane back. “One, two, three …”
Their planes sailed through the air side by side, finally crashing into the waves.
As they stood there a few more minutes, feeling the cold water swirling around their legs, Libby knew they had done the right thing. Releasing their future to God. Placing their hope in His plan. It was all anyone could do on this earth. It was the one thing that brought true hope.
Libby placed one hand on her growing stomach and slid her other hand into Dan’s larger one. Then she lifted her face to the setting sun, a prayer of thanksgiving in her heart.
Start with what you know.
Acknowledgments
It takes a village to support a writer. My gratitude for help with this project goes to:
John, my amazing husband. I wouldn’t be able to do this without you. You are forever loved.
Cory, Leslie, and Nathan, my three great kids. Thanks for supporting me and understanding when I’m glued to my computer chair.
Linda Martin and Dolores Coulter, my mom and grandma, whose prayers and encouragement I depend on.
John and Darlyne Goyer, my parents-in-law. Thanks for your love and support!
My best friends, Tara Norick, Twyla Klundt, and Cindy Martinusen. Your cheers make my day!
Janet Holm McHenry, writer, teacher, and friend. Thanks for the poetry lesson!
My prayer friends and writer-groups, especially One Heart and Blessed Hope. What would I do without you?
My agent, Janet Kobobel Grant. Thanks for believing in me!
My editors, Andy McGuire and LB Norton. I’m thrilled to work with such a great team.
My “unofficial” editors, Ocieanna Fleiss, Mike Yorkey, Bruce and Suzan Robertson, Jim Thompson, and Amy Lathrop. Your input is so appreciated!
Finally, this book wouldn’t be written if not for the wonderful men and women who help with my research:
Tony Banham, Hong Kong Historian and author. I’m forever grateful for the day I stumbled across www.hongkongwardiary.com. Thanks for answering all my questions!
Wally Scragg, policeman who was interned at Stanley.
Barbara Anslow, former prisoner of Stanley and member of ARP (Air Raid Precautions).
Reed Lamb, master mechanic extraordinaire. Thanks for letting me sit in the planes!
My ACRW friends who assisted my Hawaiian research.
Paul Inzer, WWII Veteran and ex-POW of three and a half years of the Japanese.
Lester Tenney, Bataan Survivor, ex-POW of the Japanese, and author.
Federico Baldassarre, Bataan researcher.
Clarence Graham, Bataan survivor and author.
Nick Gaynos, Pearl Harbor survivor.
Earl Williams, Pearl Harbor survivor.
Millie Dalrymple, former member of WASP (Women Air Service Pilots).
Bernice Haydu, former member of WASP (Women Air Service Pilots).
Lorraine Z. Rodgers, former member of WASP (Women Air Service Pilots).
AJ Starr, former member of WASP (Women Air Service Pilots).
Shutsy Reynold, former member of WASP (Women Air Service Pilots).
May your stories live on through these pages!
A Story of Liberation
Nazis flee under cover of darkness as American troops approach the town of St. Georgen. A terrible surprise awaits the unsuspecting GIs, and three people—the wife of an
SS guard, an American soldier, and a concentration camp survivor—will never be the same. Inspired by actual events surrounding the liberation of a Nazi concentration camp.
From Dust and Ashes
ISBN: 0-8024-1554-7
A Story of Sacrifice
Young Jakub finds himself in the prisoner-led orchestra of Hitler’s Mauthausen death camp. Engulfed by evil and weakened by starvation, he learns more than music from the world-renowned conductor imprisoned with him. Meanwhile, outside the camp, the beautiful daughter of an Austrian diplomat aids the resistance movement while her brave American fiance risks everything to find her. Will they be able to survive the Nazi evil that hunts them?
Night Song
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