Zengo’s Revolt A novel by,

Richard M. Baker, Jr.

Available at: www.web-e-books.com

Excerpt:

She waited until he was ready to set out before demanding the time to pay her

respects to the Imperial Palace, but he didn’t mind. He was in no hurry to put her in danger.

He stood idly; saw the white through the holes over her buttocks, the cuts and sores on the

soles of her feet. Then he was in a hurry and it firmed his resolve to reach the salt water

today. When she finished, he simply started off and let her follow, but he went very quietly,

in a partial crouch to let her know that danger should be expected at any moment. The

forest was thinner, there was less cover for them and many open spaces. He didn’t head for

the trail, but tried to go directly south to find the ocean. He searched the ground, too, for

signs left by other men. In December his sub company had not reconnoitered west of its

trail, so he didn’t know what to expect. Toward noon, he thought he caught sight of the

ocean from the top of a small hill, seeing it in patches through the tall trees, but decided it

must have been the effect of heat waves on his eyes. They hadn’t come far enough yet.

“Sit here and eat,” he told Michiyo, handing her the cloth containing the cooked rice.

“I’m going to try and climb a tree high enough to see where we are.”

She looked up at them, some with networks of vines trailing down their sides. When

Takakuwa cut a tough length of vine, tested the strength of it many times and seemed to be

tying himself to one of the tallest trees, one with no branches or vines on it, she thought him

really crazy. He had shed his haversack but kept on his weapons belt. When he took off his

shoes his feet looked bloody to her. Then, she stopped eating because he was doing an

amazing feat, going up the tree by holding it with his feet, using the vine as a sort of sling,

ascending in a series of crab-like movements, the muscles standing out on his bare legs,

arms and all across his back. She watched him reach the first branch, a high one, then hang

on for several minutes as if at the end of his strength. When he began to look out over the

terrain, even behind him, she gave a long involuntary sigh of relief, caught herself and

asked herself why, answering that she would be completely alone if he fell.

“If that vine is frayed,” she whispered, watching him start, “he’s going to fall on the

way down.”

He didn’t, but it was a near thing. When he left it, she stole a look at the vine and

saw with a shudder that it was mangled. Such a feat could not be criticized, nor could she

praise it. She supposed he had watched the Melanesians do it, but also granted him the

immense strength and agility it must have taken.

He said only: “When you’re ready, we can go. The area looks clear. I saw no smoke,

ships or anything. We can be at the ocean by evening and the salt water will do much for

your hurts.”

“Hai,” she nodded and watched the shoes go on over his bleeding feet, worse now

after the climb. If he was ready, she certainly was and stood up.

Going forward again, stepping gingerly with the pain so much worse, thinking of

how she had sobered and of the climb as perhaps a progressive move, he guessed that on

the way to the sea he had brought them farther west than intended. Otherwise, there would

have been some activity ahead. It looked good, however, as if they would be undisturbed

for at least a day or so. After a rest, he would start east along the shore and make the

attempt to get past the American positions and find a safe hiding place. The possibility of

the soldiers and Marines moving along the coast to connect their lines was too great to stay

long in the place for which he was now heading.

Within an hour, his feet were demanding many halts, but he did not take them. He

only hoped that the drastic change in his gait would not be taken by the girl as a sign of

weakness. Behind him and almost wincing with him, Michiyo also admitted to herself his

ability to bear torture. Her own body hurt all over, in so many places she couldn’t

distinguish between cuts and sores without looking, but it could be nothing compared to

the pain of his torn feet. Putting them into the salt water will be like into the flames of a

high fire, she thought and grimaced. If he does it without a cry, I guess I can bathe my sores

and wash off the filth. For a coward, he’s certainly an accomplished soldier.

She thought she could smell the sea, but she said in pity, for she hated to see even an

animal suffer: “May we rest a minute?”

It had been in too loud a voice and he stopped to warn her. Then he nodded and sat

down, his chest heaving from the exertion of bearing pain. The blood was thick in his shoes,

but wiping his feet would be no help. He thought he could make it to the salt water and

preferred to wait. After eating the last two army biscuits and swallowing a mouthful of

water, they sat in silence, numb, barely able to keep their minds intact in the wet heat.

He had been sitting with his head down, considering his personal discomfort, but

suddenly he raised it, again on guard. There seemed to be no military personnel about, but

he had completely forgotten the possibility of being seen and reported by Melanesians.

Once, his eyes passed over hers, saw the alarm in them, so he showed by a gesture that he

had heard nothing unusual.

“Melanesians seem to live near the coasts of this island and might be more

dangerous than the Marines,” he whispered after she had moved closer. “They aren’t

hostile like most savages, but recently some bad things have been done to some of them by

our men and the news must have passed from one settlement to the next. I didn’t scout this

area, so I don’t know if there are huts or not. If we are near Arawe and Cape Merkus, we’ll

see several islands just off the coast. If not, we’ll be farther west toward Cape Peiho than I

planned to go. To my knowledge, there’s no large settlement between here and there, but

since there’s a Marine landing beach at Cape Bushing farther on, we have to expect them to

come this way, if they haven’t already.”

Maybe if we could get to one of the little islands, he thought, it would be the safest

place to stay.

“Here, Michiyo San,” he said, reaching over his shoulder under the flap of his

haversack for his map case, “I’ll try to show you where I think we are and what is to the

east of us. I’m sorry that the jungle thickens again in front of us. I saw it from the tree and

that we have at least three kilometers to go. It isn’t certain that I saw the ocean, but there is

some water ahead.”

He unfolded a worn map, largely prepared from aerial photos. “See, it was here,” he

said, using his finger, “that we avoided the village of Didmop and crossed far to the west

over the Pulie River. Then we came in a southwesterly direction and crossed the upper

reaches of the Sigul River, only a stream to us at the place where we spent the night. I can’t

account for the sparseness of the jungle over the last five kilometers or so, but it’s thicker

just ahead. It’s difficult to travel this wilderness without a compass, but there are signs to

follow and when we reach the sea, we can find our way. If within the next two kilometers

we encounter another large stream, it should be the Omoi River and I’ll know exactly where

we are. If not, we might be between it and the Arawe Peninsula. Or we might be west of all

of it.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered tonelessly, “why the perfect ex-soldier would

forget his compass.”

“It hung on my belt,” he said, “but two weeks ago it was smashed by a bullet. Now

are you ready to go on?”

She watched him grip the machete and stood up when he did, almost wanting to

steady him when he swayed.

“I’ll only use the machete when absolutely necessary,” he said and shut his eyes

against a wave of dizziness. “Today the noise will carry far.”

Straightening his shoulders, then pushing them forward to stretch the muscles in

them, he swung the blade once or twice over the ground, testing his arm, then turned and

walked stiff-legged in among the trees with Michiyo following numbly, coming soon on a

wall of tangled foliage. At first he began to crawl and force his way, often stopping to pull

her through after him, but after a few minutes of this he had to stand and make a way for

them.

Her notions of fleeing him toward the nearest Japanese force had all but disappeared,

perhaps because the map had been so confusing. She had noted the place names of where

the Imperial forces were supposed to be, but if there was a chance that the American army

lines separated her from them, it would be foolish to try an escape. Besides, only a direct

view of an Imperial encampment would give her the chance. Also, the jungle was

impenetrable without a blade and she didn’t have the strength to swing it long enough. So

more and more, she was beginning to appreciate her escort and would certainly use him

until her opportunity came.

The next four hours were some of the most torturous of his life. Throwing himself

forward like a blinded animal, he hacked and tore at the vines, stumbled on his ruined feet

through slimy water, very noisily and without regard now for any enemy. The sea

somewhere before him became the only objective and if he was killed on the way, it made

no difference. For once he ignored the safety of Michiyo in the urgency of getting himself to

the healing water. He encountered no large stream, no river, thought himself east of it,

when all of a sudden, he broke through the end of a green barrier under palm trees and

there was the sea. He stumbled forward only a few paces, machete in his bleeding hand,

before he sank to his knees on the cleared ground, bending over as if in a bow, the sun’s

rays on water like an explosive flash in his eyes. He was unconscious before his head struck

the sand, just at the high-water mark.

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