by Debby Lee
Jack, who’d been caring for the wounded Ormond, interrupted Irving’s thoughts.
“I’m sure his concussion has healed enough by now, but I’m afraid his badly busted leg is getting infected, and there’s nothing I can do for him. The guards aren’t exactly sending in their best doctors.” Jack’s voice brimmed with sarcasm.
Irving noted the anguish and frustration boiling under his copilot’s skin. Then again, the hot summer sun was enough to boil anyone. Irving kept watch over the other enlisted man, Worley, who’d been captured with them. He seemed to be faring well, at least physically. Emotionally was another story.
One particularly cruel Japanese guard had beaten both Irving and Jack. The man had delivered repeated blows with a bamboo stick, first Irving, then Jack, then Irving again, and so on. The pummeling was severe enough to push Irving to the edge of unconsciousness. His head still hurt. He held his hands to his busted lip and bleeding temple and tried to extend forgiveness, but fell short.
The suffering endured by the POWs was not just physically difficult. The cruelty inflicted drove many to the brink of insanity.
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner consisted of the same fare, boiled rice and bugs, all in meager supply. There was never enough water to quench his ever-present thirst. The stench of the camp did nothing to whet his appetite anyway. Still, after five days he found himself dreaming of extravagant meals. Of his mother and sisters preparing ham dinners with mashed potatoes and gravy, roast beef, pasta dishes, and fried chicken with corn on the cob. For dessert, chocolate cake and a variety of fresh baked cookies.
What he wouldn’t give for a can of Spam.
He’d lost track of the days, even though he tried to count the lines he’d scratched on the wall to mark the days he’d been in prison. The lines, like the days, blurred before him. Hunger, pain, and fatigue were ever-present companions.
At night, he pulled the quilt square from its hiding place and ran his fingers over her initials. He prayed for her, that she was safe, that her family was well, that she’d wait for him. His thoughts turned to the days he’d spent with her in the hospital, and those precious hours walking along the beach.
Was he listed as missing in action? If so, would she wait for him? Or had she been told he was dead? Any telegrams would be sent to his mother. He prayed for her and the rest of his family, that they wouldn’t give up hope.
Rumor had it that Olympic runner Louis Zamporini was held captive somewhere within Japan. Although Irving didn’t know where, he still took the time to pray for him, and all the other POWs.
Weeks into their captivity, Irving’s prayers for Ormond were answered as the private slipped into eternity. Irving was grateful for the opportunity to lead the boy to Jesus before he drew his last breath on earth. At least he wasn’t suffering anymore.
Heaven only knew what the guards did with the boy’s body, but Irving decided to hold a service for him to honor his sacrifice.
That evening, during dinner, after they’d finished the day’s workload, Irving began, “‘The Lord is my shepherd….’” When he finished reciting the rest of the twenty-third Psalm, he led the twenty or so POWs in “Amazing Grace.” Jack and Private Worley both wept bitterly.
Partway through the third stanza, the most brutal of the guards ran at them in a rage and began beating Irving and Jack once again. Irving fell to the ground and curled into the fetal position to protect his head from the onslaught of punches and kicks. Determined to remain conscious, he concentrated on the words of the hymn.
Moments later, he was only vaguely aware of being dragged into a dark, stone cell, roughly three-feet square. Why this particular guard hated him and Jack so much remained a mystery to Irving.
In the cell next to his, he heard Jack’s sobs. Irving added a few of his own. He’d tried to be strong for so long, but each day sapped his strength like the hot sun evaporated water.
He almost welcomed the thought that came next, because it would mean an end to the pain, the hunger, the mind-twisting psychological torture.
What if he didn’t live to see the end of the war?
Chapter 11
With bittersweetness flooding her heart, Stella stood in church on Monday evening, August 6, 1945. Her parents stood beside her, along with her friend Mary and Mary’s family. In her hands she clutched Irving’s Bible, the unfinished quilt block bookmarking her favorite passage.
The pastor had called a special service to pray for the people of Japan.
Stella didn’t understand the science behind an atomic bomb. All she knew was that the Japanese people were suffering, and thus, she would pray. Tears slipped down her cheeks. As heartbreaking as the situation in Japan was, the end had to be near. She could feel it in the core of her being.
Papa had come home from the hospital. Mama proved to be a good nurse, and with gentle care, Papa emerged from his shell. After a few days of healthy food and an abundance of love, he regained his strength. Then he and Mama chose to spend time at the hospital.
Mama worked on her sewing while listening to Papa read to the remaining soldiers, but Stella couldn’t do that anymore. The one time she had gone back to read to the soldiers again, she found herself staring at Irving’s bed, then fled the room in tears.
Three days after the church service, another bomb dropped on Nagasaki.
Five days later, Japan surrendered.
The war was over.
Mama said over dinner that night, “I ache for the poor souls in Japan, but at least your father won’t have to go away again.”
“Yes, Mama,” Stella replied. “All the men will come home.” All the men, that is, except her Irving. She learned that moving forward was a process. Most days she could manage all right, but then she’d hear an airplane overhead and think of him.
“You miss him, don’t you?” Mama asked.
“Yes, I do,” Stella said. “I hate being in limbo like this. Part of me hopes he’ll come back, but another part of me wants to let him go and get on with my life. He’d want me to move on and be happy.”
Papa smiled warmly at her. “You never were a patient thing. Give the Lord time to work.”
Her father spoke the truth. In spite of the feeling of hanging in midair, there were happy moments. Local soldiers were coming home to happy families. Like the Hapsock boy.
Mr. Hapsock had stopped making parachutes and acquired funding to open a new fish processing plant. He’d been so impressed with Stella’s work ethic as a seamstress that he hired her to work in the packing department. He even hired her father to be foreman. August was peak fishing season for halibut, rockfish, and salmon. Therefore Mr. Hapsock wanted the cannery up and running as quickly as possible.
And there was another miracle.
With the generous bonus Mr. Hapsock had given her, plus the security of Papa’s new job, they were able to buy back the blue house. Elation had her smiling.
When moving day arrived for her small family, she was determined to be happy. She helped her mother carry their meager furnishings inside and place them next to the fireplace. Mr. Hapsock’s son was there to help. He got around all right, considering he’d lost part of his left leg.
Stella lugged her things into her old bedroom, the one she’d vacated so long ago when the bank foreclosed on the house. She thanked God for bringing her, and her family, back home.
The following morning, a cool late-summer Sunday, she wore her new cream-colored blouse to church. A smart green ribbon adorned one of her mother’s old hats that she’d worn during the Gilded Age. Stella didn’t care that it might have gone out of fashion since then. She wore it with pride as she walked behind her parents on the way to church.
The Hapsock boy tipped his hat and greeted her. “You look really nice today, Miss McGovern.”
“Thank you.” Stella entered the sanctuary and found a seat next to Mary.
“That green ribbon on your hat matches your eyes,” Mary said.
The young Mr. Hapsock moved to his seat an
d placed his crutches under the pew. He turned and smiled at Stella.
Mary giggled and leaned close. “I think he’s sweet on you.”
“What? Don’t be absurd. He’s much too young.” Even so, warmth flooded Stella’s cheeks. The minister stepped to the podium and thankfully saved her from the potential of further embarrassment.
Stella found it charming, the way he’d doted on her on moving day. He did have a handsome smile and was kind. But could she open her heart to another?
After uncountable days in the concrete box their captors liked to call a prison cell, Irving and Jack emerged into daylight.
“Aahh!” Irving shielded his eyes from the glaring sunshine. His lungs aching for air, he gasped at the fresh oxygen. His legs lost their ability to support him, and he fell to the ground.
Jack groaned. “Water, please.”
A guard brought a bucket containing lukewarm water, but at least it was clean. They were allowed two dippers full, and then they were dragged back to the barracks. That evening at roll call, the cruel Japanese guard ranted about the weakness of those who surrender. The guard berated the men, especially Jack, Irving’s copilot, his friend.
Irving could stand it no longer.
“Why don’t you leave him alone?” he yelled at the guard. Irving worried for Jack’s sanity. Not only was Irving in much better condition to take a beating than his friend, but as the superior officer he considered it his duty to protect his men however, and whenever, possible.
Rumor had it things were bad for the Japanese Empire. While he’d been in his concrete cell, he’d heard Allied aircraft flying overhead during the day. It wasn’t difficult to recognize the sounds of the B-17 bombers. Though he didn’t know the reason for so many planes, he considered it a good sign.
It seemed only a matter of time before the empire crumbled, if it hadn’t already. The frustration must be driving the guard to madness, hence the motivation for such frequent and unprovoked beatings.
The guard gave him a murderous glare. His chest heaved in and out with each breath. Still, he didn’t say a word. Slowly, the man came toward Irving.
To fight back was folly, certain death. After months without adequate food, he didn’t have the strength to fight back anyway. So Irving crouched into a ball and prepared for the hit. The blow landed across his forehead.
Stars!
More blows, accompanied with screams of incoherent rage.
Pain!
Screams continued as the bamboo stick broke and then the kicking commenced.
Irving’s whole body ached. He was sure at least one of his ribs broke with the assault.
Unconsciousness beckoned him a half second before the beating stopped. Irving couldn’t see much due to the blood streaming down his face, but he recognized the voice of the cook. It was mealtime. Literally, saved by the dinner bell.
Meals were down to two per day, each consisting of a small scoop of rice and bugs. His comrades resembled walking skeletons. His own limbs swam in his now oversized uniform, or what was left of it. It hung on him in tatters. Days ago he’d poked another hole in his belt to tighten it around his waist. Much more of the rice and bugs diet, and he’d be able to wrap it around his middle twice.
Irving opened his left eye and saw men hobbling toward a table in the center of camp. A guard stood by the table stirring a cooking pot of what had to be more rice and bugs. Only starvation could propel men forward for a meal of this poor caliber. But, starving and weakened as they were, even the sickest were pressed into slave labor. This told Irving how desperate the Japanese were for manpower.
That night when he lay down to sleep, Jack confronted him.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know you’re still grieving the loss of Ormond. I was worried about you.”
A sob erupted from his copilot, his friend. “I don’t know how much more I can stand, Irving.”
“I know,” Irving muttered. He thought of praying, but his faith had grown weaker at witnessing such cruelty. He found himself questioning God. How the Lord must grieve such brutality. Irving had started out surviving day by day, but now, weakened by hunger and torture, he survived hour by hour.
Then came the day many of the guards made a hasty departure. Some prisoners whispered to themselves that Japan must have surrendered and the guards wandered off somewhere to end their lives. Irving didn’t care to speculate. All he wanted was to go home.
A week later, an American plane dropped loads of supplies into the camp—crates of food, along with copies of Stars and Stripes and other newspapers, cigarettes, and to Irving and Jack’s elation, a Bible. The war was over.
When reading a copy of the New York Times Irving learned of the terrible tragedy of the USS Indianapolis. The famous ship had been torpedoed while returning from a classified mission and sank. Three-quarters of the men had initially survived the shipwreck, but after days in the water, only a quarter of the men were found alive.
Irving clutched the newspaper and shook his head. Such a heavy loss of life. It was heart-wrenching, but it made him determined to get word to his family, and Stella, as soon as possible.
The following days blurred together. American forces landed, liberating the camp. The rescuers rounded up the POWs and gave them medical treatment. The Americans were then placed on a ship bound for San Francisco. The rest of the POWs went back to their home countries of Great Britain and Australia.
While on the ship, Jack met with a psychologist and seemed to be doing better. Worley gorged himself on food and then vomited that night. Irving was content with chicken broth for the first few days. When the ship sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge, he couldn’t contain his tears.
Home soil. America. He was home, and no longer under the threat of dying in the war. His first call had been to his family to let them know he was all right. But he wasn’t ready to go back to the family farm, not yet. He needed time to get his strength back and to recover emotionally. And he needed to find out if Stella waited for him.
Thoughts of her had flooded his mind all those long lonely days on the raft and the torturous days of captivity. Now, in the hospital in San Francisco, he still thought of her. The quilt square had gotten dirty and tattered in the time he’d held on to it, but he couldn’t bring himself to wash it. It served as a reminder of what he’d endured. He hoped she’d see it as a symbol of the hope he had of being with her.
Every day he called Fort Mears, trying to get word to her that he was alive. The telephone either went unanswered or, if someone did answer, Irving was transferred from one man to another before the call was cut off. On his last day in port, he got a call through to a frazzled enlisted man who took a message. Irving prayed the news of his survival would get to Stella. If she still cared for him and she thought he was dead, and then he suddenly showed up, it might give her an unhealthy shock. Or worse, in Irving’s mind, had she believed he was dead and fallen in love with someone else? He hoped either case wouldn’t become a reality.
Irving’s guess was that most of the men had shipped out, gone home, and left Fort Mears low on manpower. It occurred to him that Stella and her mother might have moved away too. A mix of worry and anxiety filled him and propelled him to leave San Francisco.
The moment the doctors let him out of the hospital, he took a cab straight to the airport. There, he booked the first flight to Dutch Harbor, hoping, praying, that Stella hadn’t thought him dead and moved on with her life.
Chapter 12
By the middle of September, most of the soldiers who’d occupied Fort Mears had been shipped back to the States. Some agreed to keep in touch with Stella. Some decided to stay in Dutch Harbor. Colleen Gardner’s husband, Luke, had come home from the hospital ship, and together they’d found permanent work at the hospital on base.
Stella and her parents were all settled in their new home. Fires blazed in the fireplaces, and Mama was putting on weight. Papa performed well at his new job. Stella had more time to sew,
but doing so made her think of Irving.
Sitting in the parlor of their new home before a roaring fire, Stella folded the quilt block, the one Irving had given her, and placed it in his Bible. There were times she doubted she’d ever get past missing him. She dropped her sewing into her lap.
“Mama, I’m going for a walk.”
Her mother nodded and went back to her embroidery. Papa ruffled his newspaper and puffed on his pipe. Life had settled into a semicomfortable routine. As comfortable as could be without the man she still loved.
Stella donned her coat and slipped out the front door.
In a few moments she stood on the beach looking out over the waves. Every day there were reports of soldiers who were missing in action who had been thought dead. The days of summer had come to a close, and the cooler days of autumn would soon give way to winter. In spite of the cold, dark days lingering on the horizon, she still found herself clinging to a weakening thread of hope that Irving would come back to her.
A tear tickled in the corner of her eye. She had to face the fact that he might be dead. And if he was alive, would he be the same man she remembered from their walks? Or would he be maimed or mentally wounded after experiencing Lord knew what?
She choked back her tears and accepted things as they were. He was gone. At least she had his Bible. Even now, she held the worn book close to her heart, bookmarked with the quilt block that she would cherish to her dying day.
The moon peeked over the eastern horizon as twilight settled. It was time for Stella to get home. She pushed off from the boulder she’d been leaning against and tightened her scarf around her head to keep off the chilly wind.
A man hobbled toward her. A skinny man, but she couldn’t quite tell who in the semidarkness. The Hapsock boy hobbled, but not this fast. A flicker of recognition …?