This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Again and again, it went through Cpl. Al Coffey’s head as he held on for dear life to the safety strap.
How long ago was it when they left from China? It took hours and hours of flying. Bullshit banter with the guys. Going over the orders again and again. Going over the procedures again and again. He hated it all.
Two hours ago (or thereabouts), they were over the sea. Japan was right in front of them. It was pitch black outside, but morning would be coming soon. No matter. They were going to be outta there before the first rays of sun.
An hour ago, they must’ve been spotted. This was supposed to be easy. Easier than doing it by day, at least. He heard stories about how the first raid went. “Not that successful” beats “abject failure.” That’s what Cpt. Briarcliffe said when he griped about this.
Abject failure came at them soon enough. The Zeros came in on them like a junkyard dog. They saw the fear in his eyes. It must’ve been him because this kind of shit always seemed to happen to him at home.
He strained to look over his shoulder towards the cockpit. It was a bit quieter now. Were the Zeros taking a breath, or did his hearing get that bad? It was all dark around him except for the night sky which had a blush of dark blue contrasting against the jet black of the Superfortress’ interior. It was better this way. Fifteen minutes ago, the Zeros caught up with them again, just after they let their payload go on some poor saps on the mainland. At first their guns made no impression on the Superfortress’ armor. That was the cinch, he thought. Then someone, maybe a knuckleheaded Jap too frustrated to think straight, drove his plane into the starboard side. At least that’s what Roger said right before the nose of the Zero tore him in two.
“It’s turning right for us!” he said as he tried desperately to reload his MG. Seconds later, a blast, a crack, and Roger’s upper torso bounced all over the inside. Al remembered getting blood on him, and the dumb look on Roger’s face that he caught for a brief moment. He didn’t know where Roger was now, but the Zero left a gaping hole in the side. Air was constantly rushing out, taking all the shell casings from the bomber’s MGs with it. At least the floor wasn’t that dangerous to walk on.
Then there was Keith. He was stunned by the suicide attack. Another Zero must’ve came in, seeing the wound in the bomber’s side and attacking like a rabid animal. Keith was torn up by a hail of bullets.
Meanwhile, Al was hiding in the back by Chuck the radio man. Chuck was getting scared now as Cpt. Briarcliffe and Lt. Solomon must’ve been fighting like hell to keep the plane airborne.
That was five minutes ago, maybe. The truth is that Al had been lying on the floor, a bit past the now-empty bombardier compartment. The Zeros had been strafing them for a while, cutting into that hole and even making some little holes of their own with their MGs. The last thing he heard Chuck say before he left him was him trying to hail the others in the wing. Al would’ve looked out the hole to see if anyone else was out there, but he could still hear the Zeros a little. So far they hadn’t shot him as he hid in his little corner of the plane.
Unfortunately for him, Cpt. Briarcliffe was on the radio. “Corporal!” he yelled. “Get up here! I need your help!”
What for? Al was no pilot. He was about to ask when another Zero let loose a hail of bullets into the rear of the plane. Some of them came through the hole, though, sending lead dancing around. It was a nifty light show, and some of the shrapnel grazed Al’s cheek. Lesson learned. Keep your eyes closed. And keep your knees tighter to your face.
“Corporal!” yelled Briarcliffe again. God dammit what did he want? “Get up here now! Stalworth (that was Chuck), we need clearance up ahead!”
Clearance wasn’t a good thing here. Clearance to land, probably. The only friendly territory was in China and there was no way in hell they were near China.
Briarcliffe yelled again and again for him. Why didn’t he just think he was dead? “He’s in the middle compartment!” yelled Chuck. “Al, get going!”
“Why!?” yelled Al as poked his head up.
“Solomon’s been hit! I need your help!” said Briarcliffe.
If Solomon got hit then that must mean the ball turret got knocked out. Now there was no way in hell he was moving. Anyone who could fire a gun at the Japs on this plane was dead.
Five minutes passed, and in those five minutes Briarcliffe called for Al 17 times. Zeros hit the plane six times. This thing was gonna land, all parts at least serviceable even if the entire crew was not. That’s how they designed these things.
When Al was drafted, they said the air force was a good job for him. No need to face the enemy, thank you very much. Al was a librarian back at home, and he very much enjoyed the quiet. Plane rides were quiet in the same way. A buzz from the engines and little more. But everyone liked to talk on the way to and from missions. The simplest bombing run had more narration than “War and Peace.” And those were the good ol’ days. This was the first time they had trouble.
The plane had started rocking. Or maybe he was just noticing it now that his knees were bumping into his face. If this kept up, he’d be out of teeth before they hit the ground. He stuck his head up again to relieve the pounding. How much time had gone by? Briarcliffe was still alive at least. “Help me goddammit! Solomon’s in trouble!”
“What the hell are you doing?” yelled Chuck. Not through the radio, though. He was standing over Al. “What’s the matter?”
The easy answer was to say he was hurt. It was too dark to tell anyway. But Al’s instincts answered before his brain could.
“I ain’t moving,” he said.
“The fuck you aren’t!” yelled Chuck. He bent over to pull Al up when the familiar buzzing sound the Zeros made wafted through the big hole again. Chuck couldn’t react in time. Another hail of bullets. One or two of them hit Chuck in the lower back. He crumpled immediately with a yelp.
When the Zero passed, Al crept to him. He could barely see the dark wounds on Chuck’s back. “Are you alright?” said Al.
“No,” said Chuck between gasps. Al tried to drag him to the side but Chuck kept resisting. “You’re hurting me!” he yelled.
Al stayed over his body. This was his fault. Chuck’s the radioman. He should be calling for help. “What’s going on?” he said to Chuck.
“The radio’s out. They hit it,” he said. “Doesn’t matter. No Chinese in a thousand miles for us to land in. Not gonna make it to Russia, either.”
“How do you know?” asked Al.
“We’ve been getting chewed up, you idiot!” Chuck was gasping more rapidly now. “We’ve diverted north. It’s too late though. We’re not gonna make it.”
Al slumped back to his corner of the plane. Not gonna make it? Where the hell were they gonna land? Korea? Were they even gonna land or were they just gonna slam into the ground and be done with it?
Another five minutes passed. Zeros came lunging at them again and again. Or maybe it was just one Zero, nipping at the defenseless Superfortress. A small fry nibbling away at this behemoth floundering along on the way to its death. Al was not amused.
Briarcliffe came again and again. “Help me please! Corporal, we are going to crash and I need you up here at the controls!”
Chuck came again and again too, though he mostly just groaned and flopped over on his back.
And there Al was. Ever since he was old enough to know what he wanted to do with his life, he knew there could not be a God. This minute’s events were only reinforcing that belief. But deep inside he felt terror as the plane pitched uneasily from side to side. The Zeros were still lurking outside. There was no way a God could allow this to happen to him.
So he began to pray. Please, he pleaded into the darkness, closing his eyes as tightly as he could. Please! Please let me get through this! Please get me out of here! Get me out of here! Anywhere but here!
A loud bang from the darkness interrupted. There was a whining noise from one of the engines, and the plane, already struggling to stay level, slouched forward into a decline. He gripped the safety strap tighter. The buzzing of the Zeros turned into the ghostly whisper of air rushing through the wounds in the fuselage. The whistling became higher and higher pitched.
“Brace yourself!” yelled Briarcliffe. Seconds later, the plane hit the treeline, trembling mightily before hitting an open field and flopping on the ground. All Al was cognizant of was loud banging followed by intense repeating pain in his wrist and shoulder.
He didn’t know how much time had passed, but not long, for the sun hadn’t reached the horizon yet. But it was bright enough to see outside. It was mostly quiet.
Al let go of the safety strap at last, though his hand hurt so much that it was better off remaining in a fist. He pulled himself up. Something was terribly wrong with his other shoulder, the one leaning against the plane’s fuselage.
The plane was mostly level, so he was able to pull himself to his feet, though he immediately fell down, for his trembling knees were in no shape for holding him just yet. He nearly fell on top of Chuck, who managed to hold onto his own safety strap, though he was now bleeding from the head and was unconscious.
Some more time passed. When the sun finally made its appearance, Al could hear voices from outside. He couldn’t guess where they had landed. Their only hope was that they were Chinese, but that was frankly a stupid hope to have.
He could also hear someone stirring from the front. Briarcliffe emerged, walking from the darkness into the light shining in from the gash in the plane’s side. He stumbled down the cracked walkway, past Keith’s pulverized remains, which splashed on his boots. He saw Chuck incapacitated, then Al lying near him, clearly alive. Briarcliffe could only stare at him as he took a seat on the floor.
“…Solomon?” asked Al. Briarcliffe just kept staring at him.
Sure enough, the visitors were the IJA. They happily dragged Briarcliffe, Al and Chuck out from the plane. By now, Chuck was awake but seemed only able to look with confusion at what was happening around him.
None of the Japanese spoke English, so all Al could understand was loud, ceaseless yelling from one of them, apparently a sergeant. Two soldiers went around pulling their quarry to their feet by the shoulders. Briarcliffe could stand without much trouble. Al’s knees still refused to work, so he stumbled backwards. That earned him a kick to the hip and arm, followed by a rifle butt to the chest. Now his knees were more afraid of the Japs than anything else, and so stiffened enough.
Chuck had no such fear. He had no such anything, just pained stares at the Japs surrounding him. They hauled him up and he crumpled like a marionette. They hauled him up again. And again. And again. Every time he sunk to the floor, groaning pathetically, tears welling in his eyes. He tried to call towards the fuselage, and they indulged him a bit before dragging him back to Al and Briarcliffe.
When they got bored, they tossed him onto his stomach, then perforated him with a volley of rifle shots.
Their sergeant spoke a quick order and they fell back in line. Al and Briarcliffe were put at the center of a column marching back through the forest they just crashed through. Al finally had his strength under him, though not much was remaining. Briarcliffe seemed fine enough.
Al wanted to ask where they were going, but the smarter half of his brain vetoed doing anything that could provoke their captors. He didn’t even dare to look at them. He just kept glancing at Briarcliffe, who stared straight ahead, also as silent as he could be.
There was no telling how long they hiked through the craggy terrain of God knew where. As the sun continued along its way, turning the air hot and muggy, Al finally felt his hunger pangs asserting themselves through his sore shoulder. He was getting hit by dizzy spells. He was going to throw up. Oh my God, if I stop to vomit, they’ll kill me, he thought, stealing a glance at a nearby sentry. He silently begged his stomach to hold on, for the both of them.
At last they made it through the forest into a clearing. In this clearing was a high fenced-off area, inside of which they could hear random shouts and yells. One of their captors pointed at it and yelled something. It seemed pretty evident what they wanted, but the Japs took no chanced and kicked both of them in the ass to hurry them up.
They were let into a prison camp. Al had heard about these before and, more importantly, saw them on the posters at home. Kill every last murdering Jap, said one, or so he remembered. Otherwise it was death in the Philippines. Or Korea. Wherever they were.
He and Briarcliffe were processed, he supposed, or at least introduced to the camp’s commandant. This involved having any insignia on them torn off, followed by a fierce slap to the face. They were then herded out into the main work area, a large field tilled by caucasians. Americans, even! Al was filled with relief, as if he had just came home.
And then they were brought to a Jap sergeant. He turned away from observing another pair of prisoners, both shirtless and digging a ditch with splintery shovels.
The sergeant gave them a quick once-over. He said something to one of the sentries nearby. “Hai,” said the sentry. Al recognized that as “Yes.” The sergeant turned to them.
“You were the ones chased here?” he asked in unbroken English. Al didn’t know what to say.
“That’s right,” said Briarcliffe.
“You are to work here, then,” said the sergeant. “I am Sgt. Hisano. I will interpret for the commandant. No doubt he has told you to get to work immediately. You are to assist these men in digging an irrigation ditch, and then afterwards to assist in the planting.”
Al didn’t really comprehend what Hisano was saying even though he understood every word. He looked to Briarcliffe, who kept his eyes on Hisano.
“You will be fed twice, once at sunrise and once at sunset. You are too late for breakfast, however. And when the time comes, you will be sent to your barracks for sleep. Until then, get to work. Ask these other men what to do, but do not talk of anything else. The guards will be listening.”
They were then dragged to a line of men, all caucasian, digging a ditch about a hundred yards long. Nobody looked at them. A guard was nearby, tapping the butt of his with his fingers.
Briarcliffe started digging right away. Al had trouble lugging his shovel, though. Nausea was battling its way into his stomach, but he had nothing to throw up, thankfully. He looked at the guard again. He was staring back. Al started to dig.
The others, many of whom were shirtless, with reddened skin and thin arms, chipped away at the soil. Al had no idea how far along they were in this project.
“Captain,” whispered Al. Briarcliffe didn’t respond. Did he hear him? “Captain?” he whispered again.
“Hey,” said a POW on the other side of the ditch. “Shut up.”
“They can’t hear me,” whispered Al.
“I can hear you,” replied the POW. “So shut up. And stop digging so fast, you’re making us look bad.”
Al was used to working in silence. But this was unsettling. Very few voices could be heard, just the tearing into the ground of shovels and the occasional grunt. Everyone worked slowly, scooping once every ten seconds, then moving down to dig the ditch deeper.
It was too hot. The humidity was working its way through his shirt, weighing him down like a suit of mail. He wanted to take his shirt off, but seeing the ruddy bodies of his compatriots, he figured he was one of the lucky ones. But the heat quickly slowed his pace.
Al tried to focus on his work, but without knowing what they were digging for, he found himself looking up constantly, even as the others kept their eyes on their work. He managed to see (and hear) a POW two rows down leaning feebly on his shovel while clutching his lower back. A guard charged up to him and, shouting something in his native tongue, kneed the helpless POW in the face. It was hard to see what he did after that, but he could hear a pathetic, staccato moaning from over there.
His eyes wandered to another guard. They met eyes for a split second. It was then he learned to look no place else but downwards.
The sun took its time, lingering until it mercifully set. A whistle was blown from the main camp. The POWs pulled their shovels onto their shoulders and trudged to the barracks.
Hisano was waiting for them. “Good news you rats,” he said. “You have completed the ditches. Now you get to plant. It should be easier work for you from here on out. As a reward, you will get a potato along with your dinner tonight.”
Al was handed a bowl of soup, or so he was told. It looked more like discolored water with bits of lentil and pumpkin floating in it. He was also given a potato no larger than an apple.
“Where do I sleep?” he asked one of the POWs as they entered the barracks. He looked around and found his answer: anywhere he could find a mat and lie down was where he’d sleep. The mats they were provided were paper-thin. Al managed to find a discarded one, but it was only large enough to sit on.
He drank down the soup and bit into his potato. The food wasn’t spoiled or poisoned, but it was tasteless. He noticed that the other POWs went through their potatoes in seconds.
Briarcliffe was already lying down. Al set his mat down next to him.
“Captain,” he said. But Briarcliffe kept his eyes closed.
“Hey, you,” said the POW who scolded him earlier. He too was lying down against the wall. “What’s your name?” Al realized that the man spoke with a kind of accent, vaguely British. This must’ve been the Australian accent.
“Albert Coffey,” he said.
“Name’s Redding,” said the POW. He had a full, dark beard and hazel, cracked eyes. “Don’t talk too much, even at night.”
“How the hell are we supposed to do our job then?” asked Al.
“What?” asked Redding with a grin. “Oh my God we have a comedian.”
“I’m just asking what the hell they’re making us do out there.”
“We’re farmers now, mate,” he said. “We’re soybean farmers. We are the breadbasket of the Jap army now. Happy?”
The nausea came back to Al. Slave labor. That’s what the Japs did to POWs. He was a slave now. He remembered reading about slavery in high school.
“How long have you been here?” asked Al.
“Seven months,” said Redding. “Seven beautiful months. You can tell by looking at the rings around me trunk.”
Al didn’t get it. Another POW, a short man with a stubbly face came by and sat down next to Redding.
“Hey, did he make it?” asked Redding.
“No,” said the other POW. “Who’s the new guy?”
“Coffey,” said Redding.
“No,” said the new POW. “Don’t call him Coffey. Get a new name now.”
The new POW had an American accent. “You can call me Al,” he said.
“I’m callin’ you Shit,” he said, “because it’s something I wouldn’t want to eat. Don’t ever use your real name around me.”
“He’s been here 11 months,” said Redding. “He’s Jones.”
“Where are you from?” asked Al. Jones bristled and made a shooing motion with his hand.
“We lost two today,” Jones said to Redding.
“Shit,” said Redding, scratching his beard. “This is gonna be tougher than I thought.”
“Yeah, and I understand that something big is comin’ our way too,” said Jones.
“What do you mean?” asked Redding.
“Dunno, got the info from Jackie up front,” said Jones. “We’ll see tomorrow maybe.”
“Excuse me, but what the hell is going on here?” asked Al.
“Shut up,” said Jones. “You stay out of our way, got it?”
Another whistle interrupted them. The meager lights they were given were cut. Then there was just the sound of people settling down.
“Sleep now,” said Redding.
“But…”
“No. Shut up.”
Al tried to sleep with the mat on his upper back. It made no difference.
* * *
They were given more soup at breakfast. Al was still hungry afterwards.
They returned to the ditches. They had been partially filled with water over the night. Now they had to start planting soybeans. It was actually easier, as they split the digging and planting duties up.
Al and Briarcliffe were near Redding and Jones. Briarcliffe handled the planting while Al briskly dug some holes.
“Hey mate, told you not to work so hard,” said Redding. “You’re not getting any prizes for digging the most beans.”
“Sorry,” said Al. He kept looking at Briarcliffe, but he couldn’t get the captain to return his gaze.
“What’s his story?” asked Jones.
Al looked at him. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk.”
“I can talk because I know when to talk. Otherwise you shut up,” snapped Jones. “So what’s his story?”
“We were shot down,” said Briarcliffe. Al was surprised to see him speak.
“Figures,” said Redding. “Did you hit the mainland then?”
“We tried,” said Briarcliffe.
”Things going good or bad, eh?” asked Jones.
“They’re going,” said Briarcliffe.
“Fuck. Never changes,” said Redding.
Jones glanced around, then abruptly tapped his shovel on the ground. Everyone around him fell silent. Al looked over his shoulder briefly at the pair of guards moving towards them.
It was silence for the rest of the day. No lunch. No breaks. No reprieve from the sun. No reprieve for the men who passed out and had to be beaten back into working. Just rows and rows dug into the dirt, rows of graves in some dusty land he never even heard of before a year ago.
Al thought back to boot camp after he was drafted. The running they made him do, the terrible calisthenics, the preparations for war. But boot camp ran out and he was transferred. They all had to go fight, after all. There was nothing for a guy like him at home. Boot camp ran out. When would this?
Only until the last speck of sunlight left the sky were they taken off work. Today was the day they’d be allowed to bathe. They were stripped and put on line for the watering hole.
Briarcliffe looked straight ahead as he stood in front of Al. “Captain,” Al said, “when are we getting rescued?”
Briarcliffe turned and looked Al right in the eyes. “We’re not getting rescued,” he said plainly, then turned back.
He wanted to ask it again, but there was no need to. Unless the Russians entered the war, it wasn’t going to happen. They might as well have been on another planet for all the Allies cared.
Al returned to the barracks that night, not feeling much cleaner after bathing in dirty water, and now without his shirt. He never found out who took it. The next day was sunny and clear, and the skin of his back peeled and burned away.
He wanted to ask Briarcliffe again, but the guards patrolled closer to them all day. It was just quiet digging, quiet planting, quiet contemplating. Al had nothing more to think about though. The tedious boredom hurt more than the sun.
The night was no better. Jones and Redding had something to whisper to each other, but he couldn’t hear them. Briarcliffe would go right to sleep, whether out of tiredness or some kind of exceptional endurance, Al couldn’t tell. Al was having trouble sleeping, his body refusing to get used to the half-mat to sleep on and the unforgiving floor.
Weeks could not go by. It was just hours punctuated by a few hours of sleep. They made little progress in the planting; the temperature seemed to rise every day and more men began to pass out. Some were taken away into another set of barracks. Al couldn’t tell if any ever came out.
For their part, the Japanese were generous with the water. But their constant patrolling meant silent workdays. For Al, a break came when Briarcliffe jammed his wrist when his shovel accidentally hit a rock hidden under the dirt. He suffered quietly through it even as his wrist swelled and reddened. By the end of the day, he had to switch hands.
And so Briarcliffe lied down that night, cradling his wrist on his abdomen. Usually he was asleep before lights out. Al took the chance to break the ice again.
“Captain,” he whispered. Briarcliffe looked to him. “Are we gonna get outta here?”
“I told you, we’re not getting rescued,” he said.
“There has to be a way outta here,” said Al.
“Maybe. Maybe someone can dig out. Maybe someone can sprout wings and fly away. I don’t care.”
“What? How can you not?”
“Because we’re too weak to survive out there,” said Briarcliffe. “If we’re meant to get out alive, we will. And if we’re not, we won’t.”
Al suspected he’d say something like that, but he was still surprised by it. “How can you say that, Captain?” he said.
“Everything happens for a reason, Coffey,” said Briarcliffe. “If you believe otherwise, then you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment.”
Al didn’t know how to take that. He looked again at Briarcliffe, but now his eyes were closed and his head was leaning back. Asleep that fast, eh? Maybe the captain was right all along…
The hours came and went slowly the next day, as usual. No matter how Briarcliffe worked, he couldn’t avoid using his bum wrist. It keeps swelling as the day went on.
“Let me take that, Captain,” said Al when the night came. But Briarcliffe wouldn’t turn over his shovel.
“I don’t need your help, Coffey. And don’t call me captain,” he said.
“Why not?”
“We’re all the same now, in here. It’s pointless to keep that charade up.”
In the barracks, Briarcliffe settled down by sitting up against the wall, nursing his wrist in his lap. He only just closed his eyes by the time Al reached him.
“Captain. Erm, Briarcliffe,” said Al.
“Just call me by my name,” he said, keeping his eyes closed.
“How do you go to sleep so fast?”
“I don’t. I pray for it first.”
“Pray?”
Briarcliffe opened his eyes and glared at him. “What do you think? You think anyone sleeps like a log in here? When you’re in Hell, all you have left is prayer. So I pray for it, and it comes eventually.”
Jones and Redding, still whispering urgently to each other as they ever did, took the time out to laugh at that.
“What’s so funny?” asked Al.
“How about you pray for a way outta here, Charlie?” asked Jones.
“Because none of that is coming,” said Briarcliffe. “Might as well pray for the sun to collide with the earth.”
“Oi, I’ll take that too,” said Redding with a laugh.
“Does it really work?” asked Al to Briarcliffe.
“If you’re sincere, God answers all prayers,” said Briarcliffe. He closed his eyes again and went silent.
Al was never religious. Sundays were meant for rest, and nothing was a bigger chore for him than having to go down to church every week to sit for an hour. He hated it all. Now it seemed like he was stuck in church all the time.
Might as well pray, then, he thought as sleep came to him.
He remembered that for the next day. He looked to Briarcliffe who, though his wrist showed no signs of improvement, worked as if in a trance. His face was serene, while Redding’s and Jones’ were thin and wan. Their bodies, he noticed, were thinning as well. But Briarcliffe’s body, ruddy as it was, showed vigor.
God, give me strength, said Al silently. He remembered the “O Lord” part, at least, but the other, formal prayers didn’t come back to him. He didn’t think they’d be necessary at any rate.
He kept it simple. Help me dig out this rock. Keep my hands from being scraped. Let me keep my strength today.
His thoughts focused, he found that, like a gift, the day was suddenly over. The prisoners returned to the pile, the place where their tools went when work was done. Everyone limply dropped their shovel or pick in the pile, but not Al. He threw his on top, proudly. His strength had not left him yet.
And at night, he prayed silently for sleep. He couldn’t remember how long it took him to sleep beforehand, but it came to him with quiet bliss. The next day, an officer had to grab him by the legs and drag him across the floor to wake him up.
Don’t let my hands blister, he prayed as he worked a plow. And keep the sun off my back.
The sun did not let up. Men began to collapse as water was diverted to the crops instead of the workers. Two men on Al’s line lost all their strength and sank to the ground, trying to lean against any equipment they could. It wasn’t enough for the guards, though. The men were thrown into the ditch and beaten with rifles until all they could do was twitch. Hisano was summoned, and he briskly ordered his men to finish off those wounded workers, which they did with a few shots to the head and chest.
Hisano then paced up and down the line, ordering a temporary (and blessed) halt to the work. “It is very important that we finish planting within the next few days,” he said. “We need to look our best, and if you cannot work, then you will be made useful. As fertilizer. You cannot escape your duty, and if the planting is not completed in time, you will all suffer much worse than those men did.”
Al looked to Briarcliffe, but all the captain cared about was his wrist, now turning a shade of purple. He was given plow duty, so all he had to do was push with his shoulder. It didn’t seem to help him too much.
So they had to bury their comrades in the dirt. Even as Al looked at their faces, distorted by the bullet holes in the forehead and their dull stares betraying the lingering pain they felt when they went down, Al kept his composure. Thank you God for not letting me be these men, he prayed as he shoveled dirt on their faces.
That night, they were permitted to bathe. Five minutes per man, with 20 men bathing at a time. By the time Al sat in the pool, the water was already dirty, but he relished the opportunity to sit down. Jones and Redding sat nearby. Their low voices were muffled by the sound of everyone breathing (and occasionally groaning), but Al could hear them.
“It’s gotta be soon mate. Did they say how far along, then?” asked Redding.
“A few nights. Perfect timing, really, what with all this rush,” said Jones.
“Good. I ain’t dying here,” said Redding as he slouched deeper into the pool.
“Only a few can make it out, but…” began Jones when he noticed Al looking at him.
When they settled for the evening, Al made a beeline for them. Jones rolled his eyes when he saw him approach.
“What were you talking about earlier?” he asked.
Jones tightened his lips and glanced over the barracks. There were no sentries nearby. “What d’you think mate?” he said.
“An escape?” said Al.
“Course. You think we’re staying here?” said Redding.
“When?” asked Al.
“Hole’ll be dug within two nights I hear. So we’re outta here by then,” said Jones. “Course, not everyone can make it out, y’know. Not that big a hole and not too much chance to get in it.”
“But if I were you,” said Redding after he glanced around again, “I’d go for it. You don’t want to stick around for when they find what happened, eh?”
Al only stared back at Redding. He couldn’t comprehend that. The prison was now his sanctuary. He found peace through his prayers. Why couldn’t Redding or anyone else see that? If they escape, his peace would be shattered.
He had to sleep on that fear for the night. The next day, he was on the lookout. But it was difficult to tell if anyone was missing because he only stuck with his platoon of workers. He couldn’t get a word to Briarcliffe, either, as guards had camped out near them.
Without prayer, the day went back to being a long, long haul. Al grew tired quickly and nearly gave up working. His arms and back, tanned more than ever, were thin, like the time in primary school when he caught a terrible flu and was bedridden for weeks. But more than a month of hard labor wore all his fat away, leaving stringy muscles barely able to repair with a meager meal each night. He never noticed the way he felt, the way he looked since he took to prayer. Now, with his attention focused on his scheming platoonmates, he realized that he was also stuck in his wretched body.
Frustration returned to him for the first time since he found God. He tried to take it out on the ground as they redug a ditch, but it was to no avail.
He survived the day without a beating, fortunate since he almost collapsed a few times. He dragged his shovel back to the pile at the end of the night, only able to sling it down next to it, then trudged back towards the barracks. But this time something was missing. Jones and Manning, their Aussie voices going back and forth, were nowhere to be found.
He knew they weren’t disciplined, but now he found that he couldn’t remember the last time he saw them. Did they go on ahead to the shovel pile when work was over? But then they weren’t on the line for meals either.
“You don’t want to stick around for when they find what happened, eh?” Eh, Redding? Was that it?
But even his mind was too exhausted. His thoughts swirled into an impotent rage. They were missing alright, and now… Well, now Al found that his legs had gone numb from overexertion. He had to fall to his knees, but even that wasn’t good enough, and he flopped onto the floor. He was more embarrassed than anything until someone pulled him up by the armpit, someone way too strong to be a fellow prisoner.
A guard was in his face, but of course he couldn’t understand what the shouting meant. Al was thrown near the line of prisoners, but his legs still weren’t up to the task of holding him up. The guards kicked him in the hip and back a few times. The kicks didn’t really hurt because his lower body was going numb.
He finally was able to get on all fours, which was apparently good enough for the guards. He pulled his head up to see one of them standing right in front of him. “Get in line!” he yelled. It was one of the few phrases all the Jap guards seemed to know.
It was hard to see the guard’s face in the low light, but they all looked the same anyway. He just wanted to crawl back to the line, but his legs…
“Wait,” he muttered. He saw the guard’s eyes flare just before his face hit the ground. He was punched, hard. He tasted blood and dirt.
“Wait,” he said again as he pulled himself up.
“Get in line!” yelled the guard as he approached Al from behind.
Al managed to turn around. He got to one knee and looked back towards the shovel pile (or at least its general direction). It was out there somewhere. That’s where they had to have escaped. It was located next to one of the camp’s walls. A simple hole, and the tools for it were right there. And now Jones and Redding and God knows who else were out there, idiots that they were. Briarcliffe was right. There was no way a bunch of Aussies or Brits or whomever were going to survive out there. When they were caught, they’d probably just be shot. But here…
And so Al’s arm went up. He pointed towards the shovel pile. The guard stopped and glared at him.
“There,” said Al. “They went there.”
The guard looked where he was pointing, then back at him. There was an impasse.
“They went there,” said Al again. “They’re gone.” His arm stayed up, shaky as it was.
The guard said something in Japanese to his comrades. They looked at him. One of them went off towards the shovel pile. Al hoped his message got through. In the meantime, another one kicked him in the chest, sending him back towards the line. A prisoner pulled him up and helped carry him to get his food.
But by the time they reached the front of the line, they were abruptly cut off. “We have to go to the barracks,” Al heard someone say as a group of guards came to corral them.
He could hear dogs barking now, a rare thing to hear. They were usually sicced on someone who couldn’t work anymore, but now it was evident what else they were being used for. When he realized what he had done, he felt serenity. He wouldn’t suffer alone now.
They were herded back into their barracks. This time, though, no one was ready for sleep. A lot had gone without food and were complaining, but a few older prisoners shushed everyone.
“We are in serious trouble now,” said one of them. “I think someone tried to escape.”
“Oh really?” said another. “How did they know?”
Al sat in a corner while the other prisoners talked amongst themselves. Briarcliffe was already sitting there, silent. He stared blankly ahead.
“What’re we gonna do now?” asked Al.
“I really can’t tell you that now,” said Briarcliffe has he looked glumly at Al.
Before long, they heard Sgt. Hisano, who stood in the doorway to their barracks. He was illuminated from behind by a group of guards carrying flashlights.
“Prisoners, I have some unfortunate news for you,” he said in his near-perfect English. ”It seems that some of your comrades have escaped. We will find them in time, but you must understand that this was very bad timing. We have a mission in this camp to produce food for the Imperial Army. That mission cannot falter at any time. Yet, with some of you escaping, not only will that hamper production, but it has also embarrassed me and the camp’s commandant. And until we find those who have escaped, we must remind you that you are a part of that mission, a part of that service for the Empire. If you refuse to do this work, you will be treated like any Japanese who also is derelict in his duty.”
Hisano made it apparent that derelict Japanese were treated to beatings around the head and shoulders, bayonets to the ribs (not too deep, of course), and lashes. The brutality came over the members of the barracks very quickly, as groups of soldiers were dragged out. They could hear the thuds of the beatings and muffled screams even from inside.
They took the men out in groups of three, eventually leaving Al, Briarcliffe and four men Al never bothered to get to know. They all sat near the back, trying to be quiet, but one of them was starting to sob as the screams amplified.
The next three were dragged out, Briarcliffe among them. Al looked in terror at him, but Briarcliffe’s face remained unmoving, even as a guard pulled at his swollen wrist. Al couldn’t bring himself to speak. Briarcliffe was carried through the door outside into the midst of the bone-breaking and flesh-rending.
Now Al felt all alone. He backed himself against the wall, all sweat and nerves. He was nauseous and his skin was white for the first time in ages. And before he could even think of what was to come, the guards came back in.
Al flopped onto his back and pushed himself towards the bunker’s corner. There was a floor mat behind him, which he clutched at as soon as he brushed against it.
The guards were moving towards him. He couldn’t see their eyes, but the batons in their hands, ruddy, splintering…
And then he remembered something.
Please God, he prayed as his eyes slammed shut. Help me. Help me!
But the footfalls still came closer.
Please help! Get me out of here!
They were close enough to grab at his feet. He curled up and held onto the mat as hard as he could as they silently tried to lift him up.
Get me out of here! Take me anywhere, anywhere but here!
He then heard a loud bang. Not of a baton hitting flesh or a body hitting the floor. No more yelling or crying or screaming. Just a loud, metallic bang.
His eyes remained closed even as his body felt colder. But he shivered not from the chills inside but from cold air blowing over him. There was a low whistling noise, a droning he hadn’t heard since…
He finally opened his eyes. There was no more wooden bunker, no more Japanese guards, no more worn floor mat. Just a plane’s fuselage falling through the night, its engines dying, and a large gash in its side where the murky darkness of the night stood out.
His brain finally caught up with where he was. And his body pitched forward as the plane finally lost its strength.
“Brace yourself!” yelled Briarcliffe.
