No Surrender Soldier (14 page)

Seto rolled onto his side. He ran the back of his hand over his thin scraggly beard, then smoothed his sparse mustache with his finger and thumb. He could not recall what it felt like to be touched by another human. He pressed his palms against his cheeks, then bent his fingers and dabbed the backside of them against his forehead. His cool fingers revived him—but not one iota as much as the sound of a voice from a face, and the touch of a hand from another human being would have resurrected him.

“If I lived in Japan, even on most modest of means, I would dress worthy of a tailor who is son of tailors. I would fashion myself clothes of linen. And I would sew wedding kimonos of finest silk, fresh from cocoons of silk worms that feasted only on mulberry leaves.”

Seto stretched, rolled over on his back, stretched again, and sat up. He opened his eyes, then blinked and blinked again to clear the vision before him.

His voice, the voice that broke the silence of his grave, sounded to him like crying black gulls circling Japan.

“Instead I sit here naked in stench of coconut oil and cesspool that smells worse than odor of burnt whale blubber and chamber pots. But there I had windows and doors to throw open and air out my house. I could eat when I hungered and drink, ah, even drink
sake
, when I thirsted. In Japan I could take walks and go to mountain to pray and honor my ancestors. Or do nothing but sit under a tree, any tree, even Imperial Palace weeping willow tree, if I so desired.”

Seto sat up as straight as he could, considering how much his spine curved, and the ceiling forced his neck to bow down. His voice had been shouting. It had become as if not a part of him. As if disembodied. His voice.
His
voice, as if it belonged to someone else. Only it could not be another’s voice, for there was no other person to speak to him. No other human to touch his hand, hug his neck, or kiss his cheek. There was no other. No other voice but his.

And yet, he silenced it for fear of being discovered, not beneath a weeping willow, but weeping beneath the jungle.

“Not dead, ma’am. Missing In Action.”

Tata cradled Nana as she sobbed into his chest. I felt numb and useless. I didn’t know what to do.

The way the air force colonel explained it, though Sammy’s B-52 was shot down over enemy territory, we should be glad he’s listed M.I.A. Yeah, right. Glad.

If he were listed as dead, the colonel said, the military would give up looking for him.

“You see, ma’am,” the colonel told Nana. “There’s a lot of jungle and mountains and caves… Yeah, a lot of secluded caves for him to hide in over there. As soon as it’s safe, he’ll either come out or we’ll go in and find him and bring him home to this here island.”

He told Tata, “It could be worse. Your son could be a P.O.W. Those places are hell-holes.”

Tata whispered, “Prisoner of War? Our Sammy?”

“But he’s not, let me assure you that your son is listed M.I.A. That’s Missing In Action. See?” He tapped an ordinary brown clipboard as if it explained everything. “Samuel Christopher Chargalauf, USAF Captain, M.I.A.”

Tatan stared mutely into space as he sat in the back seat of our Datsun.

“Is he all right?” the colonel asked after a while, waving his hand in front of Tatan’s face. “Do we need to get paramedics out here to treat the old man for shock?”

“He’s sick,” I said

Tomas added, “Alzheimer’s.”

“That explains it,” the colonel said.

I guessed the officer and his driver must have had orders not to leave until the families seemed normal enough.
Normal.
I knew our lives would never be the same again. “Uh, t’anks for coming.” I extended my hand. “T’anks for telling us about Sammy.”

The colonel shook my hand, then Tomas’s. He said, “I’m sorry, ma’am,” to Nana and patted Tata’s shoulder a couple of times. “If you need anything, call the Red Cross. Anytime.” The colonel dug in his uniform pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it to me. “Have them call this number.”

“Will do, sir.” Tomas and I walked him to the navy blue car with the driver leaning against the white air force lettering on the door. The airman snapped to attention and saluted the officer. The colonel saluted back. They got in and drove away.

I jammed my hands in my pockets and fiddled with the Red Cross card. It didn’t seem real. Sammy was just away, that’s all. Like he’d been away at graduate school in Hawaii, or away in officer training school, then navigator school. But he’d come back. Sammy was probably in Thailand on R&R at the beach flirting with some hot chick. He’d be back to Guam soon. Sammy always came home before, didn’t he?

Tomas broke the silence. “Want me go home? Or stay?”

“Your call, man.” I looked around the yard as if I was seeing it for the first time. I watched the Ford pull out onto the road, leaving a trail of dust. I surveyed the tool and curing sheds as if they were as foreign as the land mine Tatan had dug up. I ignored Bobo when he nuzzled my hand. I looked toward our field between the cow pasture and boonies. The field where Sammy and I had played countless games of baseball.

Sammy… my brother… lost…
My head swirled until I was dizzy from thinking. Sammy, my brother. Tata loves Sammy as much as he loves me. He didn’t care where he came from and I shouldn’t either
. Sammy’s family… he’s missing… and Nana’s heartbroken.
My chest felt tight thinking about it.

I stared off into the boonies, trying to imagine my brother hiding in a jungle far away. Was it a jungle like this one? Or more dangerous?

Tomas interrupted my thoughts. “Why don’t I get you all lunch.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Yeah, but somebody needs to feed Tatan. He don’t look so good. I’ll be right back. You going to be okay if I leave you alone? You don’t look so good either.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be fine,” I lied. Nothing would ever be the same again. My head felt as if I was about to pass out.

Tomas went in our house to call his parents.

“I’ll be all right,” I said to the empty air, as if saying it would make it so.

Tomas’s parents brought fried chicken, sweet potatoes, baked plantains, and taro tips especially for Tatan. No one ate much.

The Tanakas stayed until nightfall. Tomas followed me outside to the field where we played ball. I dropped down onto the pitcher’s mound and stared into the boonies.

“You okay, bro?” Tomas asked.

“Yeah. I guess.” But I didn’t believe it. The war was winding down. Why did Sammy have to go? Why? He could have stayed on Guam and built things. Isn’t that what engineers are supposed to do? Not go navigating airplanes over war zones. Wasn’t Guam enough for Sammy? Weren’t we enough for him? Nana and Tata need him. I need my brother. I wanted him back. It was all I could do not to slam my fist into the ground.

“’Night, then.” Tomas started to walk away. He stopped and called back. “See you at school tomorrow?”

I shrugged.

“Call if you don’t go.” He turned to walk to his parents’ car, then hollered back one more time. “Call either way.”

That night I had the kind of nightmares I knew I could never tell anyone about. Not ever. The kind of nightmares that if others knew I had they’d lock me up in the loony bin. Because only sickos would have those kind of nightmares. A guy’d have to be loco to tell anyone he actually thought those things. Even if it was in my sleep and I couldn’t help what crazy things ran through my mind.

In this nightmare I saw a woman—sometimes she was my nana, then the face and body would switch to that of Daphne. The woman was half naked. But it wasn’t the kind of pleasant dream where a guy wakes up with wet sheets. Instead the half-naked woman cried in pain, writhing to get away. In each dream segment I couldn’t stop the rapist. I was pinned down by a man—sometimes he had the face of Tomas, most of the time it was Sammy.

I wanted to hide my eyes and not look. I was ashamed. I wanted to turn it off like a bad TV show. But, being a dream, I had no choice but to watch in horror as the nightmare grew worse. Women struggled and screamed and sobbed. Men became more brutal as they forced the women. I tried to fight. I wanted to punch, strangle, kill the men who hurt my nana and Daphne, the women I knew and loved. It didn’t matter if I knew the men. Knew their images to be false images. I hated them. I hated them enough to kill them.

I awoke soaked with sweat and fear and hatred and rage. My body trembled like the volcano that exploded with lava to form Guam. But there were no cooling ocean waters to quench my fire.

Seto sat among bamboo stalks, hypnotized by lightning bolts. Flashes of light cast ghastly shadows in the jungle. It conjured ghosts of Privates Yoshi Nakamura and Michi Hayato and memories of the day
Amerikans
drove them into the jungle.

Rumbling thunder took Seto back to that day in 1944 when US tanks had rolled over the mountain crest and pushed them deeper, deeper into hiding.

Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat…
Seto and Hayato dove for cover.

“Nakamura! Yoshi Nakamura!” Seto screamed over whistling bombs, followed by
ker-boom
explosions. He ordered Hayato to stay. Seto crawled out from under cover until he found the young private, Yoshi, sprawled on the ground, grasping his bloody leg. He’d been hit.

“Get down!”
Seto yelled at Nakamura. A high-pitched whistle, then
ker-boom!
Dirt and rocks exploded into the air. They fell on Seto and Nakamura like hail pounded them from the sky. Seto spit and coughed. His vision a blur, he grabbed Nakamura’s arm and threw it over his shoulders. He stood, but hunched, and helped drag the private who hopped on one leg to where Hayato lay with his arms thrown over his head.

“Kyu wosuku,”
Seto commanded Hayato to help. Hayato did not move. Seto kicked him.
“Kyu wosuku!”
Hayato stood up and put Nakamura’s other arm over his shoulder.

They went deeper, deeper into the jungle until the sound of gunfire grew fainter than the chirping, hoof beats, and warthog grunting among the tall trees, dense foliage, strangling vines, and thorny brambles that clawed and ripped at Seto’s uniform.

When they reached a river Nakamura begged to sit and soak his leg.

“No!”
Seto said sternly. He looked around for snipers. Though none could be found, he led the men away from water, not even pausing for a drink.

Back toward the base of the mountain, Seto parted vines to discover a cave in the rock. It was not tall, but deep. It would serve their purpose.

Hayato helped Seto lower Nakamura onto the cold stone floor of the cave. Seto ripped Nakamura’s pant leg and tied a strip tightly above the bullet hole. Hayato gagged Nakamura’s screams while Seto dug the bullet out of with his knife.

When the bullet was out—a trophy Nakamura kept in his pocket until the day he died—Seto sewed the wound shut with his thinnest needle he kept in a tin.

They had made a pact to stay in the jungle until it was safe to come out.

But it is never safe
, Seto thought as he listened to driving rain sweep across the canopy of dense jungle
. There is no such thing as safety. It is an illusion for the deluded.

All day at school I just went through the motions. My mind was everywhere but on my studies. I didn’t even feel like talking to Tomas or Daphne. Not even when she came up to me between classes, touched my hand—it was warm—and said, “Sorry about Sammy,” or something like that. I was barely listening. My mind felt as numb as my body. When thinking about Sammy I felt like Simon, my pig. Betrayed. Shot. An empty rotting carcass. But I wasn’t dead. Dead pigs don’t feel pain.

I tried not to think about where Sammy was or how he felt. When the thoughts crept in, I wanted to collapse in a heap and bawl. But I was at school. And people were whispering enough behind my back. I didn’t want their pity. I wanted my brother back. So instead I let anger fill my empty shell. I stomped from class to class like I had a chip on my shoulder, not talking to anyone, just glaring into space as if daring someone to cross me the wrong way.

The second I got off the bus and trudged up our driveway I knew deep in my bones something was wrong. I called for Bobo, but he didn’t come. I searched for him, as if playing Kick-the-Can. I found Bobo hiding by the tool shed with his tail tucked under his back legs.

I headed for the house and barely reached the stoop when I heard Tatan cursing a blue streak. I didn’t even know Tatan knew half those words. I stood rooted on the stoop, afraid to go in. Tatan blasphemed everything and everyone, including God, Jesus, and
Madre Maria
.

I made a U-turn with my textbooks and headed back to the tool shed to hide out with Bobo. “I know how he feels.” I scratched Bobo behind his ears. “I just don’t dare say it out loud like he does. I don’t have no excuse, like
lytico-bodig
, so I’d be in big trouble if I let all my hurt out like that again.” Bobo’s tail beat against my leg as if he understood every word.

I cracked the door of the shed enough to let light in so I could see to do my homework. A part of me wished Daphne was sitting beside me, touching my hand again. Maybe she’d explain how to do the math problems that weren’t making sense. But then nothing did—make sense, that is. Still, it would be nice to have Daphne there, to hear her voice talk about anything, even math, other than Sammy being shot down in Vietnam.

I stared at a patch of sunlight streaming on the dirt floor. Dust danced in the sunbeam. I thought about another time when Sammy and I had sneaked out behind the shed. Sammy was teaching me to play Mumblety-peg. There was a patch of grass in the sunshine. We sat in the shed’s shadow. Sammy showed me how to throw a pocketknife so it stuck into the grass. I didn’t think I was doing too good, but Sammy wouldn’t give up on me. After I finally got the knife to stick a few times, he showed me other ways to throw it. He did some cool tricks with that knife.