Zenji was surprised to find Baguio completely untouched by war, even now, in late 1944. It was a city of low buildings, beautiful trees, and wide, clean streets, with little traffic. And it was cool, a relief from Manila.
Peaceful like Honolulu. Until General Yamashita’s convoy rolled into town. The general set up headquarters in the Baguio hospital. Colonel Fujimoto, Zenji, and staff occupied a nearby church.
“Can you cook?” Colonel Fujimoto asked Zenji.
“Yes, sir.”
He’d never cooked anything but meat and fish on a small hibachi, and only when Ma had told him to.
“Good. You are now a cook. In fact, you are now my entire house staff.” The colonel eked out a rare smile.
“Yes, sir!” Zenji gave him a salute.
The colonel still stood tall. He was an enemy, but Zenji knew he was a decent man. He cared about people. Probably why he had a desk job.
Cooking turned out to be a good assignment. The colonel received foods that most did not, like rice and even sweets. Provisions were very low, with little hope of a supply line to replenish what was consumed. Japanese troops had to forage in the jungle.
Good, Zenji thought. If they can forage, so can I.
He was running out of time.
Jungle survival. He started hiding small amounts of uncooked rice and other things that would not spoil. But food became scarce.
“This is all?” the colonel snapped one evening.
Zenji had served him a child’s portion of rice.
“Rations are few, Colonel.”
“This rice is not thoroughly cooked. You are incompetent!” Colonel Fujimoto pushed his plate aside.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Zenji bowed.
The colonel glared.
“You are not paying attention to your duties. You must do better!”
He slapped the table and stood.
Zenji bowed. “I will work harder, Colonel. I promise.”
The colonel stormed away.
Please him! Escape depends on the freedom he gives you.
Do better.
Weeks passed into 1945. April.
Zenji’s cooking improved, but Colonel Fujimoto flew into fits over the smallest disruptions. The war had moved into the islands of Okinawa, where Zenji’s parents were from. And Manila was now a raging war zone. The Americans were winning, and would soon head toward Baguio and other parts of Luzon. Yamashita was making plans to retreat even deeper into the mountains.
Zenji knew they would all be starving, and wouldn’t waste food on him.
Time to run.
Days later, as the Japanese prepared to evacuate Baguio, Zenji found himself alone in the church. The colonel had ordered him to destroy all remaining files and pack everything else.
Zenji stole a courier’s pouch and filled it with what he’d hidden away. Grains of rice, a handful of rations.
What else, what else?
A bowl. A spoon.
A kitchen knife.
A small first-aid kit.
A pistol!
He found it in the colonel’s room. He had no idea what kind it was, and he could find no ammunition. He’d have to live with whatever ammo was already loaded.
He jammed the pistol into the pouch and placed it in a box, which he hid in the pile of discarded boxes from the destroyed files. No one would look there.
Two nights later, a grim colonel gathered his staff in the church. “Manila has fallen. The Americans are coming here. We leave in three days to fight them in the hills. Anything you can’t carry, destroy.”
“You!” Colonel Fujimoto snapped at Zenji. “Build a fire. Burn everything.”
Zenji’s eyes slid toward the pile of empty boxes.
“Not those. Only what the enemy might use. Now!”
“Yes, sir!” Zenji said. Thank God, the colonel still thought of him as one of his own.
He got a fire going.
It stayed alive for two full days as they burned everything that should not fall into the hands of the enemy.
Zenji’s stash remained hidden in the pile of rubbish.
How would he retrieve it when the time came?
As he tended the fire, fear nearly overcame him.
He was so close.
He began to sweat.
The colonel noticed. “What’s wrong with you?”
Zenji froze.
The colonel came closer.
“I … sir … I’m … I’m sick.”
“Sick?”
The colonel stepped back.
“Yes, sir. It started last night. Don’t get close. I wouldn’t want you to catch it.… It will pass soon.”
Another plan brewed.