The Long March Home by Marcus Brotherton

Author:Marcus Brotherton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Fiction;World War (1939–1945)—­Philippines—­Fiction;Bataan Death March (Philippines 1942)—­Fiction;Americans—­Philippines—­Fiction;Prisoners of war—­Fiction;War fiction;Historical fiction;Novels;FIC032000;FIC014050
ISBN: 9781493441266
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2023-03-08T00:00:00+00:00

21

MAY 10, 1942

CAMP O’DONNELL, PHILIPPINES

The guards march us past Billy on the way to the gate. They’ve stripped him of his shirt, the ugly red scar across his back exposed to the climbing sun. We kneel down beside him, and I hand him the half-full canteen I was given at the Crate’s command.

“Listen,” Hank says. We’ve only got a few seconds. “We gotta run an errand for the Crate. Soon as we get back, they’re lettin’ you go. We’ll be fast as we can.”

Billy flicks a glance to the guards and then locks eyes with each of us in turn. He shakes his head.

“Don’t come back,” he whispers.

“We ain’t leavin’ you!” I hiss through gritted teeth.

“He’s just talkin’ crazy again,” Hank says to me.

“No, I ain’t,” Billy says, gaze intent. “This is what we talked about. It’s the best chance any of us is ever gonna get and the only way Jimmy stays alive. You gotta take it.”

“And what’re we supposed to tell your mama?” Hank says.

“For all you know, the Crate’s gonna kill me the minute you leave and you’ll have come back for nothin’!”

He’s right—it’s possible. But right now, us leaving is the only chance he’s got.

Hank pats him on the shoulder as the guards prod us to our feet. “See you in a couple days.”

“No!” Billy says, pulling on his chains. “Don’t!”

“We’re comin’ back!” I say firmly—for the Crate’s benefit as much as Billy’s.

“You hang in there, Streak!” Hank says, as we follow the guards to the entrance.

It takes everything in me to walk away, and all I can tell myself is the faster we leave, the sooner we’ll return.

But when I look back, I find Billy’s gaze following us and know he’s saying goodbye.

Out past the gate, one of the guards escorting us from the compound hands me a lumpy knapsack. He pulls out the .38 and hands it over. Hank takes it and cracks open the cylinder.

“Where’s the bullets?” he says angrily. “We need bullets!”

The guard points to the knapsack, turns on his heel, and returns to camp.

It’s strange, being out in the open like this.

Free.

For a minute, I think, It’s true. We could run for it. Never return. For all we know, Billy’s as good as dead no matter what we do.

That’s when I realize why the Crate singled Billy out: because there ain’t three friends like us. And he knows as long as there’s a chance Billy’s alive, there’s no way we’ll leave him behind.

He might call us traitors to our country, but he knows we’ll never betray each other.

I bet he’s never had a real friend in his whole life. The thought scares me, because it makes me think he might have it out for Billy from sheer spite.

I open the knapsack, rummage through the contents, pull out a battered old map, and unfold it.

Santa Rita lies southwest of San Fernando and north of Guagua, where we used to stop for the day during our supply runs to Manila. Far as I can tell, we got over twenty-five miles to go just to get there.

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