Bridge of Scarlet Leaves (38 page)
Read Bridge of Scarlet Leaves Online
Authors: Kristina McMorris
63
O
ne hundred thirty-nine American POWs—all murdered. Lane had tried to convince himself it was just propaganda, but multiple accounts from men who’d survived the Palawan Massacre verified the horrors. Only eleven had made it out alive. With the Allies gradually recapturing the Philippines, MacArthur had sent out a directive to the area’s Japanese commander in chief, citing warnings of accountability for the mistreatment of prisoners.
ne hundred thirty-nine American POWs—all murdered. Lane had tried to convince himself it was just propaganda, but multiple accounts from men who’d survived the Palawan Massacre verified the horrors. Only eleven had made it out alive. With the Allies gradually recapturing the Philippines, MacArthur had sent out a directive to the area’s Japanese commander in chief, citing warnings of accountability for the mistreatment of prisoners.
Evidence of crimes by their captors was soon set aflame. The POWs at Palawan were ordered into air raid shelters they’d built themselves, then the structures were doused with gasoline and torched in a coordinated effort. Nearly all who broke out were bayoneted, shot, clubbed, or tortured.
Palawan wasn’t TJ’s prison camp, but the same could happen there any time. And Lane carried in an envelope the proof supporting his claim.
He strode into the building with a look of confidence. It had taken a dozen phone calls to secure the meeting—not to mention a furlough pass, as well as hitchhiking jaunts on four different jeeps in the roasting January heat—in order to reach Melbourne. Now all he had to do was make it through the officer’s door.
“I’m here to see Major Berlow, please.” Lane presented his most charming smile to the receptionist.
“And you are?”
“Sergeant Lane Moritomo, ma’am.”
She pushed up her bifocals and scanned her schedule. Frank Sinatra crooned “Blue Skies” through a tabletop radio. “Ah, yes. The major will be with you shortly. Have a seat, if you will.”
He thanked her and propped another smile, which she reciprocated. A good sign. He’d welcome any ally who had a connection to Berlow; the guy was his last chance. Also a last resort.
Lane had spent every day for the past several months slogging through various chains of command. He’d campaigned to politicians, brass, anyone in the upper echelons with the potential to liberate TJ’s camp. He’d referred them to atrocities shared by Ranieri: appendectomies with no anesthesia, iron-club beatings for stealing a single papaya, little or no medical attention while men suffered from malaria and scurvy, beriberi and tropical ulcers.
Although listeners extended their sympathies, reports from other Japanese camps were too similar to make Lane’s case stand out.
Helpless to do much more, he had thrown himself into his work. His spot at OCS had been confirmed but delayed. His goal of being home by New Year’s had changed to Valentine’s. He liked to visualize surprising Maddie at the station with a bouquet of peach roses, though the vision never lasted. Thoughts of TJ would crash into his mind and return him to task.
Hence, he applied tireless effort, surpassed expectations. He treated each document, each Japanese POW, as if the secret to achieving peace lay in their translated words. On occasion, he’d uncover an item of significance. He had even earned a promotion for his deeds. No doubt, the MIS’s Nisei and Kibei were collectively shaving years off the war. Their translation of the Z Plan, Japan’s naval counterattack strategy, enabled a major U.S. victory in the Battle of the Philippine Sea; decoding an intercepted itinerary led to the assassination of Admiral Yamamoto, mastermind of the Pearl Harbor attack; and the list went on and on.
The theory was simple: Win the war, and TJ would come home.
So long as the war didn’t outlast TJ.
“Sergeant,” the receptionist called. “The major will see you now.”
Lane rose, overseas cap resting on his manila envelope. He followed the woman’s directions toward the office in the northern corner of the building. Ringing phones competed in volume against snapping typewriters and chattering secretaries.
At the door, he heard a muffled voice. He rapped a knuckle on the glass.
“Yeah, yeah, come in!” The gruff response belonged to Berlow. A sniper’s shot to the knee may have raised the man’s military rank, even secured a cozy office, but obviously it had done little for his social graces.
Lane proceeded inside. Berlow sat behind his desk, his face slightly thickened. He was dictating notes to a young gal struggling to keep up. As predicted, the room was meticulously neat, not a speck of dust on the oak desk or cabinets. When the girl dared ask for clarification, he dismissed her with a grumble. She slinked from the room, head bowed.
Snapping a salute, Lane direly hoped his own encounter wouldn’t end the same.
Berlow returned the greeting in a vague motion, then pulled a cigar box from his desk. Was he going to offer one for old times’ sake?
“Nice to see you again, Captain—I mean—Major Berlow.”
The officer chose a single cigar, for himself, and slapped the lid closed.
Lane continued as planned, laying groundwork for the scene. “Speaking of which, congratulations on your promotion. I’d only just learned you’d been transferred from the islands.”
Berlow stuck the cigar into the corner of his mouth and his teeth clamped. “You come all this way to blow sunshine up my ass, Sergeant? ’Cause Colonel ‘Blowhard’ has decided to call a lunch meeting, giving you exactly”—he checked his watch—“ten minutes and three seconds to speak your piece. I wouldn’t waste them if I were you.”
Lane cleared his throat. Luckily, he’d prepared a speech.
“Sir, I’m here to inform you of a situation. I recently translated an official memo from the Japanese Ministry of War, sent to their prison camp commanders. In it are orders to execute their Allied POWs if our advancing forces are closing in on them. I’m convinced this memo set the stage for the Massacre at Palawan.”
Berlow chewed on the end of his cigar, devoid of expression.
“There’s also a camp on Magtulay, a small island south of Mindoro. With the Allies’ recent invasion of Mindoro, and General MacArthur’s return to Leyte, this camp is particularly vulnerable. Escaped POWs from there have already attested to numerous war crimes.”
Remembering his envelope, Lane reached inside to retrieve a copy of the memo. “I have the document with its translation here, confirming my report.”
The major threw up a hand to refuse the pages. “I’m familiar with Magtulay,” he ground out. “
And
the memo.
And
the mistreatment of our POWs—in a whole lot more Jap camps than this. So what is this really about?”
And
the memo.
And
the mistreatment of our POWs—in a whole lot more Jap camps than this. So what is this really about?”
Lane slowly tucked the papers away, reviewing his now barren arguments. In a single swipe, the man had stripped the effectiveness of them all.
“Well?” Berlow pressed.
Coming clean seemed the only choice left. If nothing else, perhaps Berlow would appreciate Lane’s honesty, and the drive to protect his own.
“The truth of it is, sir,” he began again, “an old friend has been held there for two years. By the time our forces liberate the camp, it might be too late. Given your connections and experience, I was hoping you could help get these guys out.”
“Ahh,” Berlow said, sitting back. “Get ’em out. Just like that.”
Lane tried to expound, but the major cut in.
“Surely I don’t need to remind you that every soldier, sailor, and Marine out there is someone’s buddy or sweetheart. Some mother’s pride and joy. So you must have a mighty good reason this pal of yours deserves more attention than the rest.” A question and answer combined in one. More than that, his aloofness gave no hint that he and Lane were more than strangers. There existed no trace of their last somewhat genial exchange on the islands. No suggestion that they had served side by side in battle.
One would never know, for example, that the man behind the desk was alive because of the technical sergeant standing before him.
Lane had hoped to bypass that truth, but there was too much at stake. He straightened and replied, “It would be a favor, sir.”
Berlow cocked his head, waiting, eyes narrowing.
“After everything I’ve ... been through with your company.” He’d inserted the pause to draw out the allusion, which he let hang there, gaining definition.
Comprehension stroked the length of Berlow’s face. His features hardened as if coated in glaze. “I think we’re done here.”
An alarm rang in Lane’s mind, a warning to backpedal. “Major, all I meant was—”
“I said, we’re done.”
The tactic had proven a grave mistake. Push any harder and Lane could wind up behind bars himself.
In acknowledgment of his defeat, he simply said, “Yes, sir.” Then, left without choice, he headed for the door, his final solution crushed at the hands of Berlow’s pride.
As he reached for the knob, he noted the major’s cane, leaned against the wall beside him. At the sight, Lane’s view of the room changed. It wasn’t an office. It was a cage for an animal meant to run free, to hunt.
For Berlow, a man who thrived in the heat of battle and lived entirely for leading his pack, a desk job was a prison in disguise. Not all that different, perhaps, from an internment camp.
Turning back, Lane offered what he could. “I’m sorry about your leg, sir.”
The major didn’t respond, but the rage in his cheeks began to fade.
“Thank you for your time.” Lane saluted and again went to leave. When he stepped over the threshold, he heard Berlow curse to himself.
A holler followed: “Sergeant, get your ass back here. And close the damn door.”
Despite the choice of words, the order landed in the realm of civil, with the potential for pleasant. Lane obliged, hope kept in check, and returned to his chair.
From a desk drawer, Berlow snagged a small matchbox and a clean ashtray. Amazingly, he lit his cigar. He stretched out a smoky exhale, as though savoring a long-denied delight. Finally, reclining in his throne, he confided, “There’s a raid in the works—on Magtulay.”
Lane’s whole body perked, first from elation, then from the fearful image of strafing fighter planes. “What kind of raid is it?”
“The kind that could get your buddy home safe and sound. Or, get him and everyone involved killed. Got several being planned at different camps in the area. Course, that’s not for you to spread around.” He continued once Lane shook his head in agreement. “There was talk about tasking our Raiders with the toughest ones, but now that Vandegrift disbanded the units, I imagine the Army’ll be tackling them solo.” He didn’t sound pleased about the decisions.
Those weren’t of Lane’s concern.
“Sir, about Magtulay ...”
“Huh? Ah, yeah. Well, it seems a Philadelphia congressman has a nephew who got himself shot down off Panay. Reports say he’s being held at your pal’s camp. Goal is to get him out before the Japs figure out what kind of bargaining chip just fell into their pocket.”
The news was miraculous, almost too good to be true—making Lane wary. “May I ask why you’re telling me this, sir?”
“G-2’s waiting on some captured documents, maps and such, from Mindoro. Seeing as you have a vested interest here, you might want to be in charge of translating those papers when they come in. Make sure nothing’s missed.” He added stress to his next point. “With a good number of Marines in that camp, part of my duty is to bring them home.”
So that was Berlow’s angle. To liberate guys sharing his uniform. But what about those who weren’t Marines? Or above all, any prisoner without a powerfully connected uncle?
Lane knew enough to understand that casualties would be considered a calculated cost. Also that TJ would be among those labeled expendable.
He couldn’t allow that. Which made what he had to do utterly clear.
“Major, could you tell me who I should speak to about accompanying the rescue team?”
Berlow expelled a sharp gray puff. The expanse of his forehead knotted. “Oh no you don’t. They don’t need you jumping in and fouling up their plans. And I’m not about to take responsibility for your welfare.”
“Please, sir, just consider it. On the front lines, I could contribute to the mission’s success. Listening in on enemy conversations, translating on the spot.” Even though Berlow hadn’t praised him for those acts in the past, Lane knew he was aware of them. “I simply can’t sit back and watch. Not when I know how much I could help by being there.”
Berlow shifted his gaze to his ashtray. He tapped a finger on his desk, mulling over the idea. The seconds passed as if dripping from a leaky faucet. “All right,” he muttered. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to the colonel.”
Lane suppressed a smile.
“Just try not to get yourself killed for Christ’s sake.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
For hours, during the jeep rides back to Sydney, Lane thought about his beloved Maddie. He questioned if he were making a mistake by putting himself in danger, their future on the line. In less than a month he could be on a ship sailing home to not only her, but the daughter he’d yet to meet. Suzie, his sweet baby bird.
He longed, too, to see the rest of his family, at last reunited after his father’s release. The man’s innocence should have been evident from the start. And yet Lane’s dad would never voice this; he would forge on with patience and endurance. Such admirable traits had apparently paid off in other ways. For, according to Emma, their parents had discovered a newfound affection. The idea still filled Lane with wonderment—as did every cherished letter from Maddie. Her mentions of even the most mundane daily tasks seemed like paradise when he imagined completing them together.
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