“Your dad, he gave me the farm for far less than its value. I tried to … do the right thing. There’s more money in there for the rest of what the property is worth. Unless you want the land back. Just say so and it’s yours,” he said. “Whatever you want to do is fine with me.”
I was quiet a moment. Truth was I didn’t know what I wanted to do. After a long moment I said, “I think I’ll let you keep it. There’s nothing here for me anymore.”
“Maybe you should take some time and think about it,” Mrs. Miller said.
“No, ma’am. Truth of it is, this place no longer felt like home even before I left.”
Once we had everything settled, I went back to the farm and took a few things from the house: a picture of my mother, one of my grandfather, and a few little knickknacks that reminded me of them. None of my clothes fit me anymore, and there wasn’t anything else I wanted. Mr. Miller drove me into Duluth, where I bought a good used truck. On my way out of town, I stopped to get some flowers, then went to the cemetery and said goodbye to Grandpa and visited my mother’s grave. I was almost ready to leave Minnesota for good. There was just one thing I had left to do.
I pulled up in front of Spence’s, parking on the street. Inside the bar it was dark and smoky. I could hear the clack of billiard balls coming from the back room. There were only a few people around at this time of day. I spotted my father at the end of the bar, a half-empty glass in front of him. His head hung down, and he stared at the bar top as if the answers to all of life’s questions were hidden there. He didn’t look up as I approached.
“Hello, Pa,” I said. At first he didn’t respond. “Pa?” I said.
When he finally looked up and swung around, he was so drunk he nearly fell off the barstool. He closed one eye as he tried to focus on my face. Somehow the fact he didn’t recognize me at first didn’t bother me.
“Wha?” he muttered.
“It’s me, Pa. Henry.”
He closed both eyes as if he were trying to concentrate. “You!” he said. His eyes flew open, and anger clouded his face. When he tried to stand he stumbled, his feet catching on the barstool legs, and fell to the floor.
I looked down at him. He was pathetic.
“Help me up,” he shouted.
I shoved my hands in my pockets. For a brief moment I was ashamed of myself for being afraid of such a weak, wretched man for so long. How had I let him intimidate me? What would my mother think of me? And then I knew. She would be proud of me. Proud of what I had done. Of what I had endured. That was all I needed.
“See you around, Pa,” I said as I turned and walked out.
I never saw him again.
Three days later, I turned onto a dirt driveway that led to a ranch outside Denton, Texas. It was a long drive that divided two pastures that held Black Angus cattle on one side and Longhorns on the other.
I stopped in front of a small, neatly kept ranch house with a shaded front porch running the length of the house. Gunny sat in a wheelchair on the porch. He’d had trouble walking ever since the surrender. The doctors hadn’t quite figured out why yet.
“Yer all the way back to bein’ a tree, I see,” he said as I climbed the porch steps.
“Gunny, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“If that’s true, ya ain’t gettin’ out enough.”
We looked at each other a minute. “I was hoping you might have work for me,” I told him. “I need a job.”
“Why would I hire a dumb ex-Devil Dog?”
“Well, for one thing, that’s a pretty mangy herd of Longhorns you got in that pasture. Looks like you need someone around here who knows their way around a cow.”
“I already got a hired man. Besides, I don’t own them Longs to sell for meat. I just like lookin’ at ’em. They remind me of simpler times.”
“Well, Gunny, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re a little banged—”
“Don’t you never shut up? Never did know when to stop talkin’. Of course you got a job. Ten dollars a week, food and found. But there are a couple a conditions.”
“I’m listening.”
“One: You gotta get a proper hat. That campaign hat yer wearin’ has always looked ridiculous on that giant onion of yours.”
“Sounds fair.”
“Two: You agree to let me introduce ya to my neighbor’s daughter, Becky. Pretty as a fresh glass of iced tea and exactly yer age. Take her to a picture show and maybe an ice cream after. Somethin’ like that. Those are the terms.”
He looked at me. The glint was back in his eye. He might not ever be the rugged, strong oak tree of a man he once was. But in his gaze I saw Gunnery Sergeant Jack McAdams once again.
I put out my hand, and he took it in his. His grip was firm.
“That sounds like a deal.”
All of the men and women who have served our country in uniform deserve our profound respect. It can be a fruitless exercise to make comparisons between wars in different eras—the battles, combat styles, and horrible conditions fighting men and women face each present their own unique challenges. In conflicts throughout history, captured prisoners have endured unimaginable torture and hardship. In World War II, however, there was a sharp contrast between how prisoners of war were treated in Japanese prison camps and those in Germany.
Statistics show that POWs had an average 4 percent mortality rate in German camps. In the South Pacific, mortality rates for prisoners climbed as high as 30 percent, and in some camps they reached more than 50 percent. These numbers refer to Allied prisoners, whose governments kept records of personnel who did not return home. But in addition to American, Australian, British, and Dutch prisoners, the Japanese captured tens of thousands of Filipino, Korean, and Chinese men and women, and thousands of indigenous peoples in Southeast Asia. The exact number of prisoners who died in Japanese custody will never be known.
The Japanese Empire signed the Geneva Convention, but did not ratify it. They did not consider themselves subject to the “rules of war.” In Japan in the 1930s and 1940s, the ancient samurai code of Bushido still reigned. And that code said that an enemy who surrendered was considered beneath contempt and owed nothing. Because of this belief, thousands of prisoners were systematically starved, tortured, beaten, or allowed to perish from the multitude of diseases that ran rampant through the camps.
The characters in this book are fictitious. However, all of the incidents of torture and abuse are taken directly from firsthand accounts of prisoners who survived both the Bataan Death March and internment from the surrender of Philippine forces until their liberation at the end of the war. In order to ensure the privacy of those who suffered this specific torture and abuse, I not only changed names, but also many of the unit designations. For example, there was no 15th Marine Infantry Battalion in the Philippines. The 2nd Australian Imperial Force did serve in the Philippines, though the Aussies in the story are fictional. The Australians were tremendous allies to US soldiers in the camps, and I wanted to honor their compassion and bravery toward their American allies by acknowledging them in this way.
Thousands of prisoners were taken to Japan and forced into hard labor to feed the empire’s faltering war machine. In many cases, the conditions they faced there were even worse than in internment camps. They worked long shifts seven days a week, and were given minimal food to survive. They were required to meet unreasonable quotas of work each day. When they didn’t, they had their rations cut or suffered beatings.
Whereas the prisoners endured heat, humidity, and monsoons in the Philippines, they faced hot summers and freezing winters in Japan. Worker safety was never considered, and men were forced to toil in steel mills and mines without protective gear or safety equipment. Many of the companies they worked for are still profiting from the work of American prisoners during the war years. These corporations have never paid reparations to the prisoners or their families.
What happened in Prisoner of War is based on a true story. Numerous underage soldiers and s
ailors entered the service in World War II. These men and women grew up in an era where record keeping, birth certificates, and proof of identity were not as well documented as they are today. Papers were easy to forge. Birth records were sketchy. Any adult relative could vouch for the age of an enlistee. If the military could accurately determine that an underage member was serving in its ranks, the serviceman was immediately discharged and sent home. However, hundreds if not thousands of Americans entered the service underage and spent their early teenage years fighting fascism, trying to survive combat or, in this case, imprisonment.
When the war ended, Americans rejoiced. But most prisoners returned home long after the celebrations and parades had passed. And in many cases, their own government did not always provide the services they needed to assimilate back into civilian life. Many prisoners who needed lifelong medical treatment after liberation were denied benefits because they could not prove their injuries were combat related. Prisoners who testified against guards and camp commandants in war crimes trials were turned away from hospitals. Some had to fight the Department of Veterans Affairs bureaucracy for years in order to receive the treatment they desperately needed.
There is still ongoing litigation regarding reparations to the families of the men and women who were exploited by Japanese corporations. You can get involved in helping to right this injustice. Write to your congressperson and senator to voice your demand for justice for these American heroes. You can also join the Greatest Generation Foundation to help raise money for veteran care and educational programs that help our communities learn about the sacrifices and contributions the men and women who served in World War II made to ensure the freedoms we enjoy today.
Death March: The Survivors of Bataan, Donald Knox, Harcourt, 1981.
Prisoners of the Japanese: POWs of World War II in the Pacific, Gavan Daws, William Morrow, 1994.
Some Survived: An Eyewitness Account of the Bataan Death March and the Men Who Lived Through It, Manny Lawton, Algonquin Books, 2004.
Tumultuous Decade: Empire, Society, and Diplomacy in 1930s Japan (Japan and Global Society), Masato Kimura and Tosh Minohara, University of Toronto Press, 2013.
Unjust Enrichment: How Japan’s Companies Built Postwar Fortunes Using American POWs, Linda Goetz Holmes, Stackpole Books, 2000.
With Only the Will to Live: Accounts of Americans in Japanese Prison Camps, 1941–1945, Robert S. La Forte, Ronald E. Marcello, and Richard Himmel, Roman and Littlefield, 1994.
Writing a book just isn’t possible without the contributions of so many people. It’s been that way with every book I’ve ever written. Everyone from agents to editors to family to booksellers to readers plays an important role. Prisoner of War is no exception.
First, I thank my editor, Jenne Abramowitz, for pushing me to dig deeper and go further into the characters until I was finally able to breathe life into them. I thank my publicist, Brooke Shearouse, for her hard work and support, and my incredible publisher Scholastic, for which I have enormous respect and admiration. I must also give a special thanks to all the folks at Scholastic Book Fairs who do, well—there’s no other way to say it—a magical job of getting books in front of hundreds of thousands of young readers across the country every year.
To my writer buddy mafia, Roland Smith, Susan Elizabeth Phillips, Obert Skye, Brad Sneed, Mary Casanova, and Ard Hoyt who are always there to encourage, pick me up, and talk me down when I’m about to toss the laptop out the window. Thanks guys.
And finally, to my family, which is unmatched in familyness. My wife, Kelly, just takes care of everything. My son and daughters, Mick, Rachel, and Jessica, who patiently smile and nod at my horrible puns and endless schemes. And the newest members of our clan, Dan, George, Frank, and Grace, who make a full life fuller. And I won’t forget our two dogs, Willow and Apollo. Despite all the mischief, there is nothing like a pup curled up next to you as you’re writing to keep you going.
Lastly, I offer my thanks to the men and women who endured the very definition of horror in the camps of the South Pacific during World War II. To those who were lost and to those who made it home, there are no adequate words to thank you for your sacrifice. But I will try. Thank you. Thank you for standing up to tyranny and oppression. For putting aside your lives, dreams, and aspirations to defend a nation.
Thank you for saving the world.
Michael P. Spradlin is a New York Times bestselling author. His books include Into the Killing Seas, The Enemy Above, the Youngest Templar trilogy, the Wrangler Award winner Off Like the Wind!: The First Ride of the Pony Express, the Killer Species series, and several other novels and picture books. He holds a black belt in television remote control and is fluent in British, Canadian, Australian, and several other English-based languages. He lives in Lapeer, Michigan.
Visit him online at www.michaelspradlin.com.
Read on to sample another harrowing tale of World War II by Michael P. Spradlin,
The Enemy Above!
Silence was life.
Stillness was freedom.
Anton turned his head to the dirt, so light would not reflect off his face. He curled his body tightly and tried to control his breathing, certain he was going to be discovered.
As the sound of the half-track grew nearer, he and Bubbe had hurried toward the tree line. But his grandmother had slowed them down. Behind them, he could hear the engine stop and the men leave the vehicle. He heard orders barked in German.
“Bubbe,” he whispered. “Cover yourself with dirt.” The soil was damp from the recent rains. He dug his hands into the ground and smeared his face and hands with mud. He helped his grandmother cover hers and pulled her shawl up around her face.
“When the soldiers come, you must make yourself as small as possible and keep your face turned to the ground,” he said.
“Be brave, my kinder,” she said. He watched his grandmother curl herself into a ball. Many years of hard work on the farm had made her stiff, and she grunted with the effort.
Anton lifted his head slightly and studied the four men. They were spreading out along the road and he heard automatic weapons being cocked. The noise of the guns carried across the field so loudly he felt as if the sound was cutting through him. When the gestapo entered the wheat field, he ducked down, burrowing into the ground as best he could.
I must not look, he thought to himself. I must not look. He repeated the words over and over in his mind.
Anton focused on the sound of the approaching men. Their boots whispered through the wheat stalks. He wondered if he and Bubbe had somehow been spotted. The approaching vehicle had caught them by surprise. Anton willed himself to total stillness, praying that he could make himself invisible. To Anton, the men’s footsteps sounded louder than cannon fire and he was certain his heart would explode. The voice of one of the soldiers startled him so much he nearly cried out.
Bubbe spoke several languages. Because of the war, he had not been able to attend school. But Bubbe had been teaching his lessons, and for the past several months she had been instructing him in German. So far he could understand and write it better than he could speak it. He heard the man ordering him and Bubbe to show themselves. Telling them that they would not be harmed. Anton wondered how this could be true. Their guns said otherwise.
Silence was life.
Despite the cool night air, Anton was sweating. He could not believe the men did not hear his heart hammering in his chest. He tried to keep his breathing regular, but it was difficult because he was so afraid.
The men were moving again. They would be upon him in moments. Should he run? Should he take Bubbe by the arm and make a break for the trees? No. They would never make it. The soldiers would gun them down before they had taken more than a step.
The soldiers inched closer. One of them was only meters away. The man’s steps sounded like thunder. Anton desperately wanted to look, but he did not dare.
Stillness was freedom.
Every muscle in Anton’s b
ody tensed as he readied for rough hands to grab him and jerk him to his feet. But the man passed him by. Anton could hear him moving toward the trees. The soldier had walked right between him and Bubbe—huddled a couple meters apart—and not seen either of them.
What should they do? Would the men enter the forest? If they did, should he and Bubbe try to escape? Instinct told him to remain still.
A few moments later he heard the soldiers talking among themselves. They spoke in hushed, hurried tones. He could not hear well enough to understand. But he could tell that a decision had been reached. He glanced up quickly to see the men turning back and heading in his direction once again. Surely, he and Bubbe would be discovered.
Closer they came. But this time they were not as cautious. They hurried through the field and returned to the half-track. Anton heard the engine start and the vehicle roar away in the night.
He and Bubbe waited a few more minutes, then stood up. Bubbe groaned with the effort. She picked her way across the field slowly, taking sharp breaths as her joints creaked. Anton wished she could move faster, in case the Nazis returned. He took her by the arm to steady her while she walked.
“You are a good boy, kinder,” she said, patting him on the wrist.
“Thank you, Bubbe,” he said. “We must hurry.”
“They will not return tonight,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“Because I am old and wise. But my hearing is still young.” Bubbe cackled with laughter. “And my German is better than yours.”
Anton had to smile. But as they made their way toward the shelter of the woods, Anton couldn’t help looking over his shoulder.
ALSO BY MICHAEL P. SPRADLIN
The Enemy Above
Into the Killing Seas
The Killer Species series:
Menace from the Deep
Feeding Frenzy
Out for Blood
Prisoner of War Page 15