The Pot Thief Who Studied Georgia O'Keeffe by J. Michael Orenduff

Author:J. Michael Orenduff
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Open Road Media Mystery & Thriller
Published: 2015-08-12T20:24:50+00:00

30

We climbed into the Bronco and headed south toward the Inchaustigui Ranch. I’d been nervous about the trip because the Inchaustiguis seem to be under the impression that Susannah and I are an item.

It created some awkward moments, which I handled poorly, largely because I didn’t set them straight. I thought doing so would be stepping on Susannah’s toes. She thought I had simply misinterpreted the situation.

Which is why I asked her about Baltazar. Since they knew she was dating Baltazar, I no longer had to worry about them thinking she was dating me.

The Inchaustigui home is an inviting two-story fieldstone structure surrounded by western catalpas and big reddish dogs with pointy snouts and floppy ears. They guard the place by charging at you like rockets and threatening to lick you to death.

After surviving the Euskal artzain txakurra—Basque sheepdogs—I received a hug from Hilary and three crushing handshakes and rib-rattling slaps on the back from Gus and Susannah’s two younger brothers, Matt and Mark.

We were seated at the long table in front of the fireplace drinking lemonade when Hilary said, “It’s nice you two are marching to honor the memory of those poor boys. I cry every time I read about it.”

All the New Mexico papers give it full coverage because almost 2,000 soldiers from the New Mexico National Guard were deployed to the Philippines in World War II and ended up in the Bataan Death March. Only half survived, and half of those died not long after the war because they were in such wretched condition.

After the Americans and their Filipino allies surrendered, 400 Filipino officers were summarily executed. The surviving Filipino and American soldiers were marched through the jungle with no food or water for the first three days of the trip. Those who fell or lagged behind were bayoneted. Some were beheaded by Japanese officers practicing with their samurai swords.

After the first three days, the prisoners were finally allowed water, but only from filthy water-buffalo wallows, which resulted in dysentery, worsened by the fact that the guards would not allow bathroom breaks. The prisoners had to foul themselves as they walked. The trucks carrying the Japanese guards drove over fallen prisoners.

Prime Minister Hideki Tōjō and Generals Masaharu Homma, Kenji Doihara, Seishirō Itagaki, Heitarō Kimura, Iwane Matsui, Akira Mutō and Baron Kōki Hirota were found guilty of war crimes and executed. They deserved worse. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing can change what they did.

There are only fifty survivors of the Bataan Death March. More than half of them live in New Mexico.

The more Susannah and her family talked about the march in honor of these men, the guiltier I felt. I wasn’t marching to honor them. I was marching to steal a pot.

And now it seemed to me that I wouldn’t be marching. I’d be skulking.

I was trying to figure out some way to rationalize it when Hilary asked me how my pot hunting was going—not exactly a topic I was eager to discuss.

So I shifted the topic in her direction.

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