When the Elephants Dance (56 page)

“The Amerikanos.”

“Of course.” He chuckles, takes a smoke, and studies me again. He says without arrogance, “They are no match for us. You do not know the training we have had since we were children. Bushido. You know this?”

I shrug and shake my head. “A little.”

“The way of the warrior. Our code. To die for our emperor is the greatest of honors. It is our will, and no other nation possesses such a will, it is indomitable. The Americans do not have such a code.”

“I have seen your will. A hundred men walking into a hailstorm of bullets.”

“One life is not worth but a feather in the wind to the glory of the emperor. It is for him we fight. He is descended from above.” The soldier points upward. “You are surprised at our beliefs? I thought you believed the same. To die with honor. Are you not the fearless leader whose name I have heard carried throughout the barrios and towns? The very same who risks death day and night?”

I shake my head. “I am not one to run when there is a fight, but neither will I sacrifice my life if I can live another day. I am not this legend they speak of.”

“Yes, stories grow big, when there is a need. And your people are in great need.”

We smoke in silence. The planes fly low overhead, rattling the windows. We wait, our eyes to the ceiling. A bomb explodes nearby, but the soldier does not flinch.

“You have a request before your execution?”

“You would grant this?”

“No, but I would be interested in what a worthy opponent would ask.”

“I wish to know what will happen to the others.”

He studies the end of his cigarette. I watch the burning end flare and fade, like the fate of my people.

“We have orders from our superior, General Sato, the leader of this post, to use as little ammunition as necessary. In two days, before he returns to this warehouse.”

“In two days and not sooner?”

“Not sooner. We keep them as a safety, to bargain with if needed. If the Americans cannot be bargained with, then your brothers and sisters shall join you in heaven.”

“You believe this?” I ask.

“No, but I understand it brings comfort to say this.”

Another soldier peers into the room; he glances from me to his comrade smoking beside me. He says something curtly in Japanese, then disappears. My escort nods, drops his cigarette, and crushes it beneath his boot. He motions for me to get rid of my cigarette. “It is time,” he tells me.

I inhale deeply and then throw the cigarette into a clogged urinal. The door opens again and the soldier turns casually. He is surprised to see the face of a young boy, too astonished to react as Bartoy shoves a knife into his arm and causes him to drop the bayonet.

I grab the rifle instantly and look at the Japanese as he holds his arm, bewildered.

“Finish me,” he says. “Or let me do it myself. I am a disgrace to my family.”

“I will do it,” Bartoy offers. He walks behind the man and jabs the knife in his throat. He pulls it out again and plunges it behind the collarbone and into the heart. The Japanese falls to the ground, clutching his throat. His stare searches the ceiling, then grows still.

I look at Bartoy sharply. He enjoys the killing. It is plain in his eyes, the anticipation. He was never like this. When we found him, after his parents had been executed, he was still tender. The business with his parents, being forced to watch, it has done something to his soul.

Bartoy does not flinch. He takes the knife from the Hapon, cleans it, and then pockets it. “This way—” He motions to me.

We leave the room. There are no guards in the hallway.

“The other guard?”

Bartoy jerks his chin ahead. Nina is standing at the end of the hall. “She has taken care of the guard. We walked right in. They guard this place thinly,” he says with disgust. I hear his voice but cannot shake my gaze from Nina. The sight of her holds me transfixed as always.

Nina frowns. “The soldiers are too busy with the Amerikanos. If the others would rise up to fight, we could take them together.”

“They will not rise up.” I spit to the side.

She looks at me with surprise. “We will leave them, then?” she asks.

At the end of the hall I see a figure, a second Bartoy, but the eyes different. I squint and realize it is Alejandro. He has come in search of me. He looks at me without accusation, waiting for me to call him. I want to grab his arm and tell him to come with us. That he must help me convince the others or they will die. Bartoy stops, too, and stares at Alejandro with fascination, as if catching his own reflection in a store window. I break my gaze from Alejandro and look to Bartoy and Nina.

“Let us go,” I order. Three simple words; why, then, do I feel as if I have just signed their deaths? I stare one last time at the hallway leading back to my family. I burn their images into my mind.
I will find a way to return
, I promise.

We stoop low and run through the streets and alleys we know so well, avoiding the rubble and sniper fire. We stop behind an abandoned building.

“There is much grumbling about your absence. There is talk that you put your family before the group,” Nina tells me. “Have you changed your mind?” she asks, and I see the fear in her eyes.

“I leave my family here, for them.”
For you
. My heart sings to be next to Nina again. I cannot stop watching her. I reach my hand out for trivial things, to support the small of her back, to tell her to walk before me. Small pleasures that feed my soul.

W
E HEAD NORTHWEST
at a furious pace. At noon we cross the Pasig by a raft covered in palm leaves, by nightfall we arrive at our new encampment, in the lowlands of the Zambales Mountains, in the foothills of Florida Blanca.

“Why do we stop?” Nina asks.

“Meet me here in two hours,” I tell them. She checks her watch and nods. Bartoy takes a step as if to follow me.

“Go with Nina,” I order.

They turn to go, and I reach for Nina’s wrist and let my index and thumb feel the texture of her skin beneath. I raise her hand and bring my lips to the underside, where her pulse beats strong and steady. “I forget myself. Thank you, for coming to my aid.”

Bartoy grins at our display. My heart tugs at how he always rallies to smile. Nina stares into my eyes with such intensity, I shudder. She is never satisfied with the surface, she always reaches deeper, wanting to touch my soul.

“Go now,” I say.

I am alone again. They have armed me with an old Browning and a .45-caliber pistol. I take a drink from my cantina and proceed straight up the mountainside, using the thick vines for climbing. The tall sawgrass claws at my clothes and lashes my arms. The grass hides deep gullies that cause me to stumble and curse myself. I am an infant learning to walk.

After an hour I can go no farther. The wounds have stolen my energy. I see eyes staring at me from the thick groupings of trees. There are clouds of malarious mosquitoes everywhere, from the recent rains.

“Who the hell are you?” An Amerikano steps forward.

“Domingo Matapang to see Lieutenant Holden.”

He laughs. “Just like that? Just let you in to see the lieutenant? Stupid sonofabitch, check him.”

Another Amerikano steps forward with his rifle poised and aimed at my head. Five soldiers close in. Three Filipinos and two Amerikanos. I raise the rifle over my head and place it on the ground.

“You can do better than that, sweetheart,” the Amerikano voice says.

I raise my arms and turn fully around.

“What’s this?” The American comes closer and takes the pistol from my waist and hits me with the butt of the gun. I shove him, ready to fight.

A Filipino steps forward. “Sarge, I know this man. The lieutenant is expecting him.”

The sergeant takes aim, then drops his arm. “You’d better be right, Mercado.”

The sergeant and I lock eyes. Mercado greets me with a nod. His name is Angel Mercado, a childhood friend from my old
barkada
, one I stole many things with. Angel pats me down for more weapons, and then an Amerikano soldier orders him aside and checks me. The Amerikano is not gentle with my injuries.

Mercado nods. “I will vouch for him, Sergeant. This is the man I spoke of to the lieutenant.”

“It is, or you’re both dead.” The sergeant spits, still watching me. “Don’t let him pull no tricks, Angel.”

“He’s clean, sir,” the Amerikano soldier announces.

The sergeant studies my eyes for a moment longer. “You pull any stunts, sweetheart, and that’s the end of you. Got it?”

I give him the same stare. Mercado rushes to the cave to tell Holden.

“Take your shoes off,” the sergeant orders.

“You first.”

“Listen …” The sergeant puts the point of the rifle to my ear.

Mercado comes back, breathing heavily. “The lieutenant will see you now.”

L
IEUTENANT
H
OLDEN’S NAME
is legendary. When MacArthur divided Luzon into four parts via radio for his guerrillas, Holden was given the western district. He has chosen to live near the foothills rather than in the mountains. The mountains are safer, away from the Japanese. The foothills are closer to the food source. My men have encountered his many times.

The lieutenant is thin and much taller than I had expected. His hair is black and his skin almost as dark as mine, a fisherman’s brown. If it were not for the gray eyes, if he were seated, at first glance he could be mistaken for a Filipino.
He wears a rifle slung vertically across his slight frame, a straw hat, and two crisscrossing bands of ammunition. His trousers have been cut off at the knees, and he wears leather sandals.

He has malaria; I can see it in the pallor of his face and the shaking of his hands. He nods at me. “Mr. Matapang …” He pronounces my name in perfect Tagalog. He places his pistol on the table facing me.

I return the greeting.

“You’ve thought on why I invited you to this meeting?”

“Yes,” I answer. “You have been joining many of the Filipino forces to yours.” Several times Holden has extended an invitation to our group. As far back as June he contacted us.

“What are your thoughts on this matter?” he asks.

“What are your conditions to the joining of our forces?” I counter.

“What is the total number of your troops?”

“One hundred and fifty strong. But you know this,” I say.

“Yes,” he answers. “My group is forty squadrons strong. We hold the lowlands of these Zambales Mountains, Tarlac, Pampanga, and Bulacan. I have connections east of here extending to the Sierra Madres and Tayabas. We are well supplied, and as you may have already heard, we recently received another drop-off of munitions and food. A fifty-ton sub drop at Baler Bay. We have received these regularly now from Australia. I don’t tell you this to impress you, only to convince you that you would do well to join us. I am sure you have heard the general’s broadcasts regarding his wishes for us to have faith and stay strong and fight. Well, now his promises have come true. MacArthur has returned. The fighting has begun. Manila is in chaos. My agents there tell me the Japanese numbers are dwindling along with their resolve.”

At the mention of Manila, my family again flashes before me. I fight the temptation to ask him to send a runner to watch them. A selfish request, one that would be frowned upon. I force the image from my mind.
Do not divide your thinking
. I study my rope-soled sandals and try to keep the astonishment from my face. I had thought their number was closer to twenty squadrons, but forty …

“Can you trust your men?” Holden asks.

“If I am present, yes. Under a different command …” I shrug.

“I will fit and arm only your most trusted men. The others I do not want. I need men who cannot be bought off.”

“My woman, Nina Vargas, is the best intelligence woman you will meet. Half of the Japanese high officers are in love with her. She is mistress to General Yomma’s aide. They trust her implicitly. We have a young boy, Bartolomew.
He can walk through the jungles unheard, like a snake. He knows how to set a land mine and can lead a group of men through any path. I have a man named Innocencio Ramirez. He is the best sniper you will ever see.” I tell him all of this, and my heart grows big at my words.

“I have heard of your shooter Innocencio. My Filipino troops speak highly of his skills. But again, can he follow orders without your presence?”

My shoulders sag. Mine is a motley group. Some would take orders only from me. “I will not desert the others. They have been loyal to me.”

The lieutenant studies his pistol for a long moment. “You must trust your men either completely or not at all. If there’s any doubt …” He leaves the thought hanging in the air.

“I trust them. Under my command, I trust them.”

“I won’t make any false promises. When the situation gets hot, I can’t promise that your men will be under your command. I will plug them where I see fit.”

I study the ground for a moment. I let the excitement subside and the truth set in. “Then there can be no joining of our forces. My men stay by me.”

Holden scowls. “Are you certain? You would benefit by joining us. We would outfit your men. The Damdamíns, the Dangáls, the Kawans, all have joined us. We could use your strength.”

“We will fight in our own way.” Even as I say this, I envy the glint of new weapons hanging from their belts. The new-shaped helmets the soldiers wear.

He watches as I peruse his men, then he sighs and begins to cough. A flask is handed toward him, but he waves the hand away and gestures to me.

The soldier gives me the flask. I take the drink and raise it in gratitude. I feel the cooling liquid burn down my throat. He takes several cigarettes from his pockets, black-papered Filipino cigarettes. I see that he has grown accustomed to our stronger tobacco. He hands them to the guard to give to me. I put one behind each ear, and as I put one in my mouth, a hand is at the ready to light it.

“What are your plans?” I inhale the smoke. It is sweet to my senses. I feel the tobacco hit my blood immediately.

“I have orders to remain in the mountains for further intelligence, and to meet the enemy when they come. Our forces in Manila may push them west, to us.”