Hunt for the Bamboo Rat Read online

The lieutenant stopped and stood so close that Zenji could smell the stink of old sweat and gun oil. The entire regiment stood at perfect attention, not one eye wandering their way.

  The lieutenant looked into Zenji’s eyes.

  At the lieutenant’s slightest nod, the sergeant grabbed Zenji by his shirt and yanked him forward.

  Zenji stumbled, but kept his head high. Never show fear. Be brave, little brother. For Pop. Be like him.

  A smile touched the lieutenant’s face. He turned to his sergeant. “Tsurete ike!” Take him away!

  The sergeant shoved Zenji toward an office.

  Zenji knew what he was in for when he saw the three men with high black leather boots and white armbands with red print.

  Kempeitai.

  Japanese military police.

  Zenji kept his head up. He would accept his bitter fate without cowardice or remorse.

  At least, that was what he hoped.

  Stick to your story, no matter what.

  He could do this. He had to.

  The sergeant pushed him into the office and stood against the wall, expressionless.

  My file! Zenji thought. Back in Manila, had it been burned? Or had the Japanese found it? Is that what this was about?

  Stop!

  He tried to clear his mind. Fear and worry helped nothing. They were not real. They were mental constructions. Nothing else.

  One Kempeitai forced him into a chair.

  Another came forward, a commander.

  Zenji looked at the floor.

  “You are Japanese,” the commander said.

  “American Japanese.”

  The commander considered that. “In the service of the Americans?”

  “They hired me.” He had to admit that. He’d been captured with the army. If he were only a civilian, why had he been on Corregidor?

  Be respectful. He looked up.

  The commander pulled a chair close and sat facing him, drumming his fingers on his thighs. “What is your rank?”

  “I have no rank, sir. I am a civilian. They needed translators and pressed me to help them … before the war started.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I’m from Hawaii, sir. I had a job on a boat to Manila. When I got here I decided to stay. That’s when I was hired to translate.”

  “I see.”

  The commander crossed his arms, curious and amused. He waved his hand. “You will tell us the truth soon enough. Would you like a cigarette?”

  “No, sir. I don’t smoke.”

  Just two guys talking.

  The commander nodded to the sergeant against the wall.

  The blank-faced sergeant strutted over and leaned in close, looking into Zenji’s eyes. His fist shot out.

  The blow nearly crushed Zenji’s windpipe.

  He toppled over and hit the floor. He rolled to his knees and grabbed his throat, unable to breathe.

  With his knee, the sergeant smashed Zenji’s nose and mouth, splitting his lip. Blood poured onto the floor.

  Zenji rolled over. The pain was electrifying. He gasped for air.

  The sergeant stood over him. “You bow, dog! You show respect!”

  It felt as if he’d been hit in the face with a baseball bat.

  He pushed himself up on his hands and knees, gulping air, coughing, drooling blood.

  The sergeant shoved him over, and Zenji curled up on his side.

  The commander lit his cigarette, stood, shook the match, and dropped it on the floor near Zenji.

  He left the room.

  The sergeant and two Kempeitai dragged Zenji to another office, shoved him onto a chair, and closed the door.

  Zenji could feel his upper lip swelling.

  A Kempeitai colonel took over. “What is your rank?”

  “I have … no … rank,” Zenji croaked, throat on fire. “Civilian.”

  “Why would a civilian be found here, working with the Americans?”

  “I was hired … to translate. That’s all. I am not military. They hired me before the war.”

  “Why did you agree to help them?”

  “I felt a sense of obligation to the country that has treated me and my family well. To do otherwise would … be disrespectful.”

  The colonel nodded.

  “I have no military skills,” Zenji added. He could hardly breathe. Pain swelled in his chest.

  The colonel paused. Then, “What was your citizenship before the war?”

  “American. Born in Honolulu.”

  Actually, until his mother had legally registered him as an American at the Japanese Consulate in Honolulu, Zenji had held dual citizenship. The fact that he was registered gave him some small comfort. It was supposed to protect him.

  “Your parents are Japanese, therefore you are Japanese, and as such you have acted disgracefully against your own people.”

  Zenji looked down.

  “You have been shamefully captured. Did you not consider suicide as an alternative?”

  Zenji looked up.

  Suicide?

  It was how the colonel himself would have dealt with imminent capture. It was deeply Japanese.

  “Yes, I considered that,” Zenji lied. “But you see, sir … I left home without my widowed mother’s permission. She objected to my leaving home … and I made her life hard. Now I am honor bound to reverse all the pain I have caused her. Committing suicide would only make it worse for her. Therefore … I disregarded that option.”

  The colonel looked at him. “It is very important to honor your parents.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know that your friends at the Nippon Club are worried about you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Oh, but you did. You were told on the boat.”

  Zenji looked down. Everyone knew all about him. He had to be very, very careful.

  “Does the name Bamboo Rat mean anything to you?”

  Zenji’s heart stopped, then slammed in his ears so loud he felt his face flush. A gasp rose; he held it down.

  Breathe.

  “Nothing … sir. What does it mean?”

  The colonel smiled. “I think you know exactly what it means.”

  He motioned to the other interrogator. They left.

  Only the sergeant remained with Zenji.

  It was over. He was done, caught. They must have captured a G2 operative and tortured the code name out of him.

  But did they know the Bamboo Rat was him?

  Maybe not.

  “You will wish you had chosen the honorable alternative,” the sergeant said, escorting Zenji outside to join hundreds of American and Filipino captives in gathering the dead and digging shallow graves.

  Two days later, Zenji was in the hospital wing of Malinta Tunnel. His lip was healing well enough, as was his throat. He’d been lucky, the medic had said. His windpipe might easily have been crushed and he could have suffocated.

  He was on his way out of the infirmary when a Japanese platoon marched in. Zenji froze when he saw who was with them.

  John Jones.

  He slipped behind a file cabinet.

  Jones with the Japanese? A captive?

  Captain Thomson, a doctor, had been at his desk when the troops came in. He stood and faced the lieutenant in charge. “What do you want?”

  The lieutenant glanced around the room.

  Zenji shrank into the shadows.

  The lieutenant jerked his head toward Jones. “Kokowa darega sikitteiruka kike.”

  Jones stepped forward. “He wants to know who’s in charge here.”

  Zenji stiffened. Is he working for the enemy?

  Captain Thomson glared at Jones. “Who are you?”

  “Never mind who I am. Who’s in charge?”

  “I am.”

  Jones turned toward the lieutenant and nodded at Captain Thomson. “Konohito.”

  “Zenin tsureteike. Samonaito zenin utsuzo.”

  Jones turned back to Captain Thomson. “He wants everyone out of here. Now.
Evacuate. If you don’t leave immediately, you will be shot.”

  The captain’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

  “Don’t fool with him, Captain. Do as he says.”

  Captain Thomson looked from Jones to the lieutenant.

  “Koitsuwo utsu jyunbi wo shiro!” the lieutenant snapped.

  Every rifle came up and aimed at Captain Thomson.

  “Captain Thomson,” Jones said. “For the safety of all, let’s try this again. Make no mistake, you are to do exactly as I say. Are we clear?”

  Captain Thomson looked hard at Jones.

  “Are we clear?”

  The captain glanced at the armed troops and nodded, slowly.

  Jones said, “Good. Get everyone out of here, and out of every bed in this wing.”

  “Our sick and wounded? You can’t,” Captain Thomson said, incredulous. “This is our infirmary.”

  “Was your infirmary,” Jones said. “Get your patients out and make room for Japanese wounded. If you don’t, you will be executed.”

  Even from the shadows, Zenji could see the captain’s eyes burn.

  “Here’s what you tell that arrogant fool you work for,” Captain Thomson said. “We’re not going anywhere. The men in my beds are too sick to move. Tell him to take a hike, and you, too, traitor.”

  Jones’s eyes bulged as he turned to the lieutenant. “Deteikimasen.”

  The lieutenant shouted, “Koitsuwo sotoni tsureteitte korose!”

  Zenji gasped.

  Shoot him?

  Two men lurched toward the captain.

  “No!” Zenji stepped forward.

  Jones turned and squinted. “Well, well, well. The moment I saw you in Manila I knew you were military. You’re one of the spies I was looking for. Of course.” He shrugged. “Hey, I would’ve lied, too.”

  “I’m not a spy, I’m a civilian who was hired like you as a translator. Only I work for the right side.”

  “The losing side.”

  Jones jerked his head for the two men to take the captain away.

  They prodded Captain Thomson with their rifles. “Ugoke! Ugoke!” Move! Move!

  When the captain refused, one soldier hit him in the neck with the butt of his rifle.

  The captain fell to his knees.

  They yanked him up and dragged him outside.

  A single gunshot echoed through the tunnel.

  The execution of Captain Thomson stunned Zenji for days. It was heartbreaking. He felt deep sadness and raging hatred. The captain had been a good man. Zenji had been beaten up, dragged, humiliated, spat upon, and shamed. But until now, nothing had enticed him to kill.

  The only solace he could find was in his memories: his family. And Mina.

  You will always have a friend in me.

  In the quiet corners of his mind, he read that letter over and over.

  You will always have …

  After three weeks in the sweltering warehouse, Japanese ships arrived to remove all Filipino and American POWs to Manila.

  Zenji had expected more interrogations, but nothing happened. And he hadn’t seen John Jones again. If he had, he would have strangled him. He now knew that he could kill a man.

  The lieutenant who’d had Captain Thomson shot scowled at the line of POWs waiting to be shipped off. His men began separating the POWs into Americans and Filipinos.

  The Americans outnumbered the Filipinos two to one, yet the Filipinos were herded onto two of the three ships, and the Americans were crammed onto the smallest.

  “You!” the sergeant called to Zenji. He pointed to the Filipino ships. “Susume!” Move!

  Zenji shuffled aboard with the Filipinos. Was this another way of playing with his head?

  A half hour later, he stood at the rail watching Corregidor shrink away, the only American on the ship. The Filipino prisoners and Japanese guards left him alone. He liked it that way. No chance of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person.

  Where was General Wainwright? Zenji hadn’t seen him in days. Had he been treated well?

  Midway between the twenty-six miles to Manila, a squad of guards began herding the Filipinos into small groups, then stole everything of value, laughing and showing each other their treasures.

  The Filipinos did not resist, standing with blank, unreadable faces. Why did war give men permission to live like vicious dogs fighting over dump scraps?

  One Filipino did not want to give up something he wore on a chain around his neck and got a rifle butt slammed into his gut. He fell to his knees and the guard ripped the chain off with a quick jerk, then kicked him.

  If that guard was ever caught on the streets of Manila by one of his victims, he would be dead in a minute.

  As the ship approached Manila, the two transports carrying the Filipinos disembarked dockside, but the one with the Americans powered down and sat out in the bay.

  Japanese troops ordered Zenji and the Filipino prisoners to line up on the shore, facing the water. Silently, they stood looking out at the American soldiers crammed on the transport’s deck.

  Zenji flinched when a rifle shot cracked over the water.

  The Americans scrambled, climbing over the rail, jumping into the water, raking the surface, struggling toward shore until finally they could touch bottom and slog to safety.

  Some couldn’t swim, and had to be held afloat by others.

  Slowly, every American staggered ashore.

  Zenji turned away from the sick show. Why would they do this?

  He could only conclude that it was meant to teach the Filipinos the futility of challenging the Japanese. Even the Americans crawled at their feet.

  The Filipinos watched without visible emotion. They knew the game.

  Once ashore, the American POWs were ordered to march in columns to Bilibid Prison.

  A Japanese guard jerked Zenji out of line. “Omae!” Come!

  Zenji followed the guard back aboard the ship he’d come in on.

  A sergeant major waited for him. “We have other plans for you, Watanabe. I’m wondering, do you imagine yourself a man of strength?”

  “What do you mean?”

  The sergeant major chuckled.

  Zenji was alone with a handful of irritable guards.

  There were no other prisoners on board.

  As night fell, city lights twinkled on the water, and the guards roamed the deck, antsy to be on shore. They glared at Zenji, who sat resting against a steel wall.

  He was glad they were missing a night on the town with their stolen money.

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, remembering Manila. The Momo hotel. The Japanese businessmen. Long walks through the city and along the shoreline. Green parks and colorful gardens.

  The Pearl of the Orient.

  He thought back to Honolulu and Colonel Blake as they’d looked up at the first star to appear that evening. Another night in paradise, the colonel had said.

  Paradise.

  Zenji looked up. That one bright star was easy to find.

  Ma could be looking at it. Right now.

  When tomorrow starts without you here …

  She’d written that note for me, even when she was angry.

  He saw Aiko, sitting on the porch.

  And Ken with Nami, out for a walk with his mom and dad.

  And Mina, teaching him to dance, bringing him a mango pie.

  Henry, Tosh.

  They could all be looking at the same star.

  Zenji rubbed his face. I am here, not there!

  He glanced over at the guards, now squatting together, talking low. Just men. Just guys. They’d probably been working in some factory a year ago.

  He spent the night on the cold deck.

  Early the next morning as the crew readied the ship for departure, a man approached. He looked like a businessman, enjoying a crisp new morning.

  He smiled. “Sleep well?”

  “Well as I could … on steel.”

  “Luxury. When I was a foot sol
dier I slept in a mosquito-infested stink-water mudhole. I’ll take nice clean steel any day.”

  Zenji grunted.

  The man looked back toward the city. “Nice place, Manila. You like it?”

  “I like it fine.” But it was better before you came.

  “Would you like to know where you’re going … Watanabe?”

  Zenji’s palms began to sweat. Something bad was about to happen. He shook his head.

  “First we’re going to drop some men off on Corregidor.”

  “I’m going back to Corregidor?”

  The man grinned.

  “Not you. You’re going somewhere special.”

  After Corregidor, the ship sailed north toward Bataan. To Cabcaben, Zenji thought, fingering his glasses. The frames were still crooked, but they worked.

  His escort now was a hard-faced corporal. He looked like a stick of dynamite ready to go off.

  Dread weighed heavier the closer they got to the peninsula. What was this special place he was going to? And why only him?

  When the dock at Cabcaben came into sight, Zenji shuddered. The Bataan Peninsula was a place of death and agony. More than seventy-five thousand Americans and Filipinos had been captured when General King and his men were overcome. What had happened to them?

  Once off the boat, the corporal shoved Zenji into the back of a small troop truck.

  As the truck drove off, dust rolled in from the dirt road. Zenji pulled his shirt up over his nose.

  What he could see out the back was grim—rusting hulks of broken tanks and trucks, artillery, discarded rifles, torn and crushed boxes of supplies, helmets, backpacks.

  The remains of a nightmare.

  Zenji closed his eyes.

  See something good.

  Eating fresh papaya on the porch.

  The sun splattering tree shadows over the yard.

  Aiko, laughing on her bike.

  His house, his family.

  Mina, in his house with the mango pie.

  He always seemed to go home when he needed comfort. He smiled, his eyes still closed. Ma had suffered, but she was strong. When Pop died, she mourned and did what she had to do to keep the family going. Zenji hoped he, too, would find what it took to keep going.

  After hours of grinding and lurching, the truck pulled up and stopped. Zenji covered his head until the dust settled.

  There were only two things he knew for sure: one, he was deep into enemy territory, and two, he was in as much trouble as he’d ever been in his life.