by Dean Hughes
Wally nudged Chuck, who was sitting next to him on the ground. “Let’s go,” he said. The meeting wasn’t over, and men were still asking questions, but Wally and Chuck stood up and slipped away. Others were doing the same. Art, Don, and Eddy followed Wally and Chuck back to the barracks. “Let’s get to the train station before everyone else does,” Eddy told the others as he came through the door.
“That’s what we’re thinking too.” Wally said. “But we’ve got to know where we’re going. How can we get a map?”
“What about Horikawa? He must know the island. He could draw something up for us.”
Horikawa was one of the guards who had marched back and forth to the mine with the men. He was no longer a guard, but he was still working at the camp, supervising maintenance work. He was friendly, and he spoke a fair amount of English.
“I’ll find him,” Eddy said, and he headed out. As the men packed together the things they wanted to take with them, it was pretty clear that most of what they had collected in the past few days—the coats and even some of the souvenirs—were too bulky to pack into bags and take along. Eddy came back with Horikawa and got him to sit down and draw out a map, and then the men started unloading anything and everything they didn’t need. They gave it all to Horikawa. He was overwhelmed with joy and appreciation. He cried as he shook the men’s hands. He could sell the coats and food and other gear and be better off than almost anyone else in Omuta.
“Old Horikawa is set for life,” Chuck said as the men left the barracks.
Wally knew that was true, and he wondered whether they couldn’t have divided the loot among more of the people. But at least it was a reward for the man’s goodness. “He deserves what he got,” Eddy said. “He was as decent as any guard we ever had.”
The group hiked through the battered city and arrived at the train station, only to find that about a hundred former prisoners from the camp were already there. Most of them were wearing Japanese army uniforms, but they were easily identifiable as Allied troops and not Japanese. They were milling about in the station and out on the loading platform, talking to one another, and most of them were discussing the same questions: How could they get to the bases in the south? What train should they take?
Wally was asking some men he knew what they thought when an old Navy chief, a man named Bruce Potts, walked out to the platform. “I got us a train,” he announced. “I talked to the station master, and he told us we can pretty much take over this next southbound train.” Potts laughed. “I think he wants us out of here as much as we want to get out.”
There was a general cheer, and the Japanese who were waiting must have wondered what was going on. “What about all these people who are standing here with tickets?” Wally asked his friends.
“Hey, we’ve been waiting for over a year for this train,” Eddy said. “Them folks can wait an extra hour or two.”
Maybe that was true, but Wally kept watching the people. He could see how beaten down they looked, and he wondered how long they would have to live with their own hardships—certainly much longer than a year.
Wally was still waiting for the southbound train when he saw a Japanese army officer walk down the platform. He was an older man, with graying hair, and he was wearing his full dress uniform. At his side was a long, ornate, two-handed sword. Wally liked the man’s bearing. He seemed resolute and dignified in spite of the embarrassment he must have been feeling with so many former enemies staring at him.
A young American stepped up to him. He was still mostly skin and bones, and he was ragged looking, his Japanese uniform already quite dirty. In a loud voice that attracted the attention of everyone on the platform, he said, “Hey, you. I want that sword for a souvenir. Hand it over to me.”
The officer stood straight, looked up into the American’s face. He didn’t move, didn’t react.
“You heard me. Give me that sword.” He pointed to the sword and then to himself. “You Nips aren’t supposed to keep any of your weapons. That was part of the surrender.”
The officer placed his hand on the handle of the sword almost as though he planned to protect it. It crossed Wally’s mind that he might pull it out and try to fight off the American.
“That’s mine, you yellow little creep.” And then he called the officer a string of obscene names. “Hand it over. I’m taking it home with me to hang on my wall.”
The officer took a long, deep breath, and then he released the belt that held the sword on his hip. He handed the sword, belt and all, to the young man. And he bowed his head in deference.
Wally felt sick. He knew what humiliation this Japanese officer, this old man, was obviously feeling. All around, people were watching, Japanese as well as POWs, and the Japanese officer could do nothing but accept the stares.
The American snatched the sword, pulled it loose from its scabbard, and admired it. He said something to his friend, and both of them laughed. The Japanese officer was still standing in the same position, as straight as ever.
Wally understood the American’s motivation, of course. He knew that when a war was over the victors took the weapons from the defeated. And after all the humiliation the prisoners had put up with, the American surely felt he deserved what he was taking. But Wally couldn’t imagine how the boy could humiliate an elderly man that way. He thought of saying something to the officer, but he didn’t want to bring any further attention to him.
The old man finally turned away, faced the railroad tracks, and stood waiting, still dignified. But another American stepped up to him. “Hey, I want your boots,” he said, and he laughed.
The officer turned toward the man, looked at him, and again showed no reaction. Wally was not sure whether he had understood.
“Your boots,” the American said, and he pointed to them. “Turn them over to me.”
Wally had noticed the high boots, black and beautifully polished. The officer looked down, studied them for a moment, and seemed to consider.
“Come on. Pull ’em off.”
The officer bowed his head again, accepted his fate, and then stood on one leg and began to pull at his right boot.
Wally stepped close to the soldier. “Don’t do this,” he said.
“Why not?”
“You’re humiliating this man. Don’t leave him standing here in his stocking feet.”
The officer handed over the first boot, and now he shifted his weight and began to tug on the left one.
“Humiliated? What do you think we’ve been for three and a half years? These cocky little Japs need some humiliation.”
“He’s an old man.”
“Hey, we ought to kill these little rats. He’s getting off easy.”
Chuck had come alongside Wally. “Those boots won’t fit you,” he said. “What are you doing this for?”
“I got a sister, likes to ride horses. She can use ’em for riding boots. Or I’ll hang ’em on my wall.”
The officer was offering the second boot now, and the American took it and walked away. Wally looked at the officer. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I . . . I’m sorry.”
The officer took one long look at Wally, then acknowledged his concern by bowing his head. In that instant, Wally felt the same tingling sensation, the same sense of relief he had known when Hisitake had stood before the men, back at the camp. And again the thought filled Wally’s head: I never want to hate again. And what was even better, he felt no need to hate. This man was not his enemy, and twice now God had sent him that sweet clarity—the love of a brother. The American boy had a pair of boots that would eventually mean nothing to him, the other a sword, but Wally had a greater gift. He had escaped the bitterness that he had feared he might harbor all his life.
The Japanese officer turned back toward the tracks. He stood in his stocking feet, staring off toward the distant hills. Wally knew this had to be the worst moment of the old man’s life, but he bore it with composure.
Wally stepped away. Some of the soldiers on the pla
tform were laughing, even making fun of the man, but Wally heard one man say, “That kind of stuff isn’t necessary. That’s as bad as what they did to us.”
Wally thought about that, thought about the officer’s dignity, thought about himself. What he felt at the moment was that his imprisonment had refined him, that it had actually been worth the pain. He would never be thankful for the things that had been done to him, but he was thankful for the result. He just hoped he could cling to what he had gained. He thought of his father. He wanted to look his dad in the eye, and he wanted him to see the change. He wanted to see all his family, hold them all in his arms, but more than anything he wanted his father, finally, to be proud of him.
When the train finally arrived, the POWs filled it to overflowing. Without tickets, they simply loaded on and took every empty seat, the aisles, even the engine and the coal cars. They sat if they could, or stood, and they looked triumphant and relieved. Then they were heading out. The men in Wally’s car began to sing—any song they could remember. “Wait for the sunshine, Nelly,” they belted out. And “You are my sunshine.” Along the way, someone began to sing “Nearer My God to Thee,” and most men were able to join in. Wally heard all this, even enjoyed it, but he was spending the time inside himself, picturing the man he wanted to be when he got home.
Home. It really was going to happen. He thought of his parents, his brothers and sisters, tried to think what they were like now, how old, what they had been doing. He hoped that all of them were all right. He hoped they were home now, and before too much longer he could see all of them.
At about midnight the train stopped, and a conductor told the men, in English, that they would have to change trains in this station in order to continue south. “We have held a train for you,” he said.
And it was true. The other train was not nearly so crowded, and so now there was even more freedom to join together and laugh and sing. All night the craziness continued—and on until nearly noon the next day. Outside the train, all the cities were leveled. Wally wondered where the people could be. How many had died? Where were the survivors? Were they living in the rubble out there, or had they found some other shelter? He tried to think what it would have been like if Salt Lake had been demolished this way.
At the end of the train line, the men were told they would have to cross a large bay if they were going to reach the southern tip of the island where the American base had been established.
Everyone grabbed up their bags and packs and headed toward the bay. Now it was time to find a boat—a ship, really. There were more than a hundred men, and that large of a group was going to require a big vessel. When the men spotted some freight ships docked below, someone yelled out, “Wally, why don’t you go down there and see what you can work out?”
“All right,” Wally said. He had grown accustomed to people choosing him to step forward and represent the other prisoners, so he didn’t think much about that. Chuck and Don went with him, and they walked on down a little incline to the ship. But what they found was that the civilian crew was entirely unwilling to help. “We’ll pay,” Wally told them. “We have yen.” But the men only shook their heads, and they hardly looked Wally in the eye.
Wally knew what he and his group would have to do, but he didn’t want to make the decision himself. He and Chuck and Don walked back to the others. “They say no, and those other two ships are too small. I guess it’s up to you, but we have authority to demand help. Can any of you navy boys sail that ship, if they won’t do it?”
“No problem,” Potts said. “Let’s go.”
This time it was Potts who walked on ahead. He was carrying a souvenir sword of his own. When he stepped onto the deck, he shouted, “We need to talk,” and he slammed his sword into the deck, sticking it up by its point. The four men who had turned Wally down came to something like attention. “Listen to me, you guys,” Potts went on. “General Douglas MacArthur has authorized us to use any means we find necessary to reach American troops. We’re going to cross this bay with you or without you. If you want to take us across and get paid for your troubles, fine. If you don’t, get off the ship, and we’ll take her across ourselves.”
Wally had no idea how much of his English these men had understood, but apparently it was enough to force them into a little conference of their own. After only a minute or so, one of the sailors turned back toward Potts, bowed his head, and said, “Yes. We take you. Three yen. Each man.”
“It’s a deal,” Potts said.
It was a wide bay, and the crossing took all afternoon. At one point the engine suddenly stopped, and it was Potts and his men who got it going again. But when the ship finally docked, the crew was obviously shocked by what happened. The POWs had no need for yen now; they were getting off this island. So most of them unloaded all their money on the sailors. One of the sailors was standing by the ladder that the Americans used to disembark. He was there to collect three yen from each, but the passengers were throwing hundreds at him instead, the bills piling up on the deck. Wally gave the man a thousand yen, almost everything he had. Once again it occurred to him that he should have spread the money around a little more, with so many in need, but he hadn’t known until now whether he would need to pay for his travel. So he kept a couple hundred yen and let these sailors have the rest. They stood watching, their eyes full of wonder and joy.
A large city had once existed just beyond this port, but it was gone now, flattened. The men walked through the debris and ashes and then on down the road. They kept up their march well into the evening, and they kept guessing that they couldn’t be far from the base, but their map lacked the detail to give them an exact idea how many miles they had to go.
Eventually, along the road, they found some Japanese army trucks. Close by, in a hillside, were some large tunnels that seemed to be used as some sort of military establishment. Wally walked to the tunnel and yelled, “Anyone here?”
In a moment a Japanese officer appeared, looking wary. Wally told him they would like to use the trucks to drive the rest of the way to the tip of the island. He didn’t warn or threaten; he simply asked. He watched the officer consider and hesitate, but then he finally said, “I will give you men to drive the trucks. They will return them to us.”
“Hey, that’s fine,” Wally said. “Do you happen to have anything we could eat?”
Before long the men had transportation again, and the officer tossed large boxes of hardtack into the back of the trucks. These were crackers, more or less like saltines, but with little flavor. The men didn’t seem to mind that, however; they were hungry after having not eaten since the day before. That was something they knew how to live with, but not something they’d had to deal with for a while, and no one liked the idea.
The four trucks were not really big enough for the large number of men, but they crowded in, and all of them were still having fun. They stood and sang and yelled and laughed, and all the motion had a tendency to toss the trucks around. At times Wally thought his truck was likely to tip over, and he tried to warn the men. The driver obviously thought the same, and he drove very slowly.
But that wouldn’t do. Finally the caravan had to be stopped, and the Americans took over the driving. Now they were moving, but the men in the back didn’t change their behavior. The laughing and singing continued. Wally knew these men had to be exhausted, but they were full of the raw pleasure of freedom. They were going home, and nothing could quiet them down.
Eventually the trucks came to a roadblock manned by Americans, and now Wally finally saw what he was looking for: big men, dressed in American army uniforms. This was a home of sorts, like the first familiar landmark after a long trip away.
“What’s this all about?” Wally heard one of the soldiers say when he saw who was in the back of the trucks: Americans in Japanese uniforms.
“Hey, we’re POWs,” one of the men shouted. “If you think we look bad in these clothes, you should see what we’ve been wearing the last few years.”
“How long have you guys been prisoners?” the guard asked.
“Most of us, for the whole war.”
Wally saw the young man stare. He was a clean-cut fellow with a sharp new uniform—well-pressed khaki, with a necktie. Wally looked at Art, who was standing next to him, both of them still in the back of the truck. “How are we ever going to explain all this—what we’ve been through—to anyone back home?” he asked.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Art said.
But the Americans were very welcoming, even respectful. “We heard you guys coming, and we thought some crazy Jap soldiers had decided to come at us on a kamikaze mission,” one of the guards said. “We set up this roadblock and got ready.”
Everyone was laughing now. The Americans, in their jeeps and halftracks, became a military escort for the prisoners, and the whole convoy rolled on into the air force base. By then it was midnight, but not long after the men piled down from their trucks, they saw an officer walking toward them. “I was in bed,” he told them, “but I got up to see this. I wanted to welcome you men personally.”
Wally could hardly believe it. Kindness from someone in authority was something he had almost forgotten. As it turned out, the officer was a major and the base commander. He didn’t organize the men into any sort of military formation, but he stood before them and said, “On behalf of the government of the United States of America, I welcome you and salute you. I know what you men went through in the Philippines—the death march and all the rest. You may not know it, but you are heroes at home, and always will be. You’ve put up with terrible conditions, I know, but we’re going to try to make up for that a little now. From this point on, you’re getting first-class treatment, all the way. You’re going to get whatever you want, if we’ve got it. I’m going to get the cooks out of bed right now and get them working on an early breakfast. What do you want to eat?”