Two Sons of China by Andrew Lam

Author:Andrew Lam
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: HISTORY/Military/World War II
Publisher: RosettaBooks
Published: 2013-11-05T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The Communists buried their dead and were then ready to search for the American airmen. Grateful villagers ran to their huts and emerged with arms full of turnips, flat breads, and clay jars of water. The soldiers ate on their feet, waiting for Yuen’s order to move out.

For the moment, Yuen put the mission to Shandong out of mind. The Americans were valuable; rescuing them would be an important—and tricky—accomplishment. He twisted a thin, wet branch with his hands. White-knuckled, he wrapped it around itself until the sinewy cord splayed, then tore. He stared at the five small mounds of stone under a copse of pear trees at the edge of the village—the men he’d lost in the battle. They’d made quick work of the grave digging, which was easy in the soft, damp soil. He glanced at the dirt under his fingernails, his chapped palms, and wondered whether to tell the villagers or to just leave.

Yuen had learned more about what happened from an old man he’d found sitting on a barrel, a man who seemed less shell-shocked than the others.

“What happened here before we came? I need to know everything.”

The old man turned to Yuen, and in a voice that almost seemed like water running over stones, he told his version of the story.

The Japanese had come from the east, about an hour before the Communists arrived.

“Have you helped any Americans?” the Japanese officer bellowed at the front line of kneeling villagers, his voice carrying to the whole crowd. He was unusually large and muscular for a Japanese. His words were translated by another soldier. Eyes roving the black heads, he stroked his thin mustache as he spoke. “The wreckage of their plane was not far from here. Already we’ve found two of them, and we know there are more—that much they told us”—he drew a samurai sword out of its scabbard, sunlight sparking on the blade—“before we cut their heads off.”

A lone baby wailed. Muffled cries among the kneeling villagers, huddled together, their understanding delayed by the translation.

“Whether you are guilty,” the officer told them, “is not in question. But, if any one of you would admit to helping the Americans, that person would be spared.”

Murmurs in the crowd. Heads tilting toward one another, furtive glances, eyes darting back to the ground. After a few moments, one man stood up. He was fatter than the others and wore a black silk cap, a sign of relative prosperity. His hand trembled as he raised it.

“It’s true,” he said. “They left yesterday, two of them, going west. One had a broken leg.”

A few villagers cast the informant dirty looks; the rest feared to lift their heads.

The officer’s forehead relaxed as he heard the translation, and he smiled thinly. “And where are they going?” he asked, climbing down from the truck bed, walking up to the fat man.

Face to face with the officer, the man removed his cap and rubbed his bald head nervously. He stared at the officer’s shiny black boots.

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