Azhen, for her part, was not willing to let a chance to see Yonghui pass. She hoped to shout his name as he passed by. With this in mind, she threw caution to the wind: she rushed to the front, followed by Ahua.

  Azhen kept telling herself aloud that she mustn’t cry.

  “What did you say?”

  Azhen shook her head, scattering her tears. Ahua appeared to have steeled herself against sadness, or perhaps she was troubled by something else at this moment of parting, perhaps for life. Her face was a ghostly white; her dry, empty eyes stared into the distance, as if she had lost all feeling.

  The sound of a familiar martial song was suddenly heard from the direction of the office. Immediately, several inspectors strode over and ordered everyone to sing. All the streets of Great Lake seemed to have been set afire by the poisonous flames and sank into raucous, violent song:

  For Heaven we fight the unrighteous;

  Soldiers loyal and true are we.

  In glory we depart,

  Leaving the motherland,

  Never to return unless victorious.

  Bravely, we vow to fight to the death.

  Banzai! Banzai!

  Nearer came the volunteers, and Azhen strained to find Yonghui. All the faces were dripping with sweat; everyone was wearing a red sash. They were passing her by. She wanted to rush over and find him; she wanted to see him just once, even for only a few seconds. Azhen was nearly mad, waving her arms, trying to get across, and shouting Yonghui’s name. She wanted to go with him.

  “Azhen! Azhen!” It was Yonghui. He gripped her hand, but she seemed not to see him. “Don’t be this way.”

  “Yonghui!” She could see him now, vaguely, through her tears. She suddenly heard someone yell, and then she was struck. Yonghui disappeared.

  They were gone, all gone. Azhen’s friends and family lifted her to her feet and comforted her as she sobbed. In the confusion, Ahua disappeared around the bend in the road.

  THREE

  •

  Ten Thousand Miles of Sea and Sky

  Dear Mother,

  (ask one of my nephews, Jiansheng or Jiantang, to read this for you)

  I spent five days at the garrison awaiting orders. On the night of we set sail and finally arrived safely at Manila in the Philippines. At the moment we are on the outskirts of I am well. Everything is fine so please set your mind at ease. Tell my brothers and sisters.

  Having just arrived, we have not yet been assigned our duties. I haven’t left camp, but I’m told the scenery is beautiful. When I get a chance to see it, I’ll tell you about it.

  Don’t worry, Mother. You are in my prayers day and night. Although I am ten thousand miles from home, we share the same ocean and sky. The distant clouds drift as they please; my heart is with you. I hope this letter will make you smile.

  Blessings and peace be with you.

  Your youngest son,

  Mingji

  DECEMBER 28

  The letter had been through the hands of the military censors.

  After Mingji polished off the remaining grains of rice from his gruel, he sealed the letter. He could feel the tears on his cheeks.

  The row of huts in the camp had been constructed recently. The huts consisted of nothing more than a straw-and-twig roof supported by wooden pillars over a sand floor. The “walls” were straw mats that hung down three feet below the eaves. Inside each hut, an aisle ran between two rows of beds. The beds were made of rough-cut wood with the bark still on it. Straw, not entirely dry, was used for bedding.

  For all intents and purposes the beds were in the open air—sunlight entered at a thirty-degree angle. Afternoons, a misty rain would soak the bedding and leave puddles of water in the aisles and under the beds. Often the men walked ankle-deep in mud. Since many of the beds had tipped over or collapsed, most people just took some straw bedding and slept out in the open.

  They were stationed at Pandacan Oil District, an Air Force oil depot ten kilometers south of Manila. In addition to supplying oil for military needs, the district was also responsible for the repair and maintenance of transport vehicles and the training of technical personnel. The Emergency Rescue Team was also stationed there; they were billeted opposite the huts.

  The Pandacan Oil District was situated on a flat grassy area of red earth. To the east was the town of Teweiga, on the south side of Manila Harbor. But the beautiful harbor was not visible from the district—coconut palms and bushes with fiery red flowers formed a natural wall over the rolling hills to the east and also to the west along the road that ran north to Manila.

  The air was a little cool just before dawn on New Year’s Day 1944, but once the sun came out, the clouds burned away, leaving the azure-blue sky. It was another brilliant day.

  Mingji had lost contact with everyone from Fanzai Wood at the garrison in Kaohsiung. On the ten-thousand-ton transport to Manila, he caught a glimpse of Yonghui, but before he had a chance to say anything, he had been swept away in the crowd.

  Mingji was attached to the First Squadron, which was commanded by Masuda Shoichi, a second lieutenant in the reserves. The squadron was not a regular air force unit; it was a reserve unit organized along the lines of the marine corps. The squadron was divided into four units. Mingji was part of the second unit, which was led by Sergeant Aoki Kumizo. Each unit was in turn divided into four squads of ten men, the leaders of which were selected on an ad hoc basis. The First Squad, to which Mingji belonged, was led by Zhong Renhe, a Hakka from south of Xinzhu. Another Hakka in the squad was Huang Huosheng, who was from north of Xinzhu.

  A number of troop trucks, engines idling, were waiting to set off for Manila. The duty officer took roll call and found that the entire First Squadron had turned out and that there were not enough trucks. The First and Second Squads were ordered onto the trucks.

  “Better go and have a look; there will be no time later,” said Masuda.

  “You’re strange, Liu Mingji—seems you’ve got a lot on your mind,” said Zhong Renhe.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve noticed it over the last few days,” said Zhong, slapping him on the shoulder. “Relax, we’re in a war zone.”

  “Don’t I know it. I really don’t have anything on my mind.”

  “Are you married? Do you have a girlfriend?”

  Mingji didn’t reply, but his cheeks flushed. What was the point of lying?

  Zhong was not an observant person, so he didn’t notice Mingji’s embarrassment. Zhong informed him that he had been married less than a month. His family made him marry the girl he had been going with for years. The girl was willing, and his relatives said he should think about continuing the family line.

  “Everybody is going to be dragged into this big war, this mess,” said Zhong. “All the young men from Taiwan will end up dead, so what do the private feelings of men and women matter? Who can care about a woman’s happiness? Who knows how to be happy these days?”

  “What do you mean that all the young men from Taiwan are going to die?” asked Huang Huosheng, turning around.

  “I didn’t mean it,” said Zhong, his face going white.

  “Forget it, Huosheng,” said Mingji. “We are among friends—we all come from the Xinzhu area.”

  “Don’t call me Huosheng; my name is Nozawa Saburo.”

  “Forget it, it was just a manner of speaking.”

  “That won’t do; you’re jeopardizing morale.”

  It was a pointless argument, but it drew everyone’s attention.

  “Hey! Look over there,” shouted someone in delight. Manila appeared before them, and the argument was forgotten.

  The harbor city of Manila lay on the east shore of the Manila Bay. A splendid bridge spanned the Pasig River, joining the northern and southern parts of the city. This was the best part of town: the Manila Hotel was located here, and large Spanish-style buildings ran along the curving sea wall. The headquarters of the Japanese navy for the southwest Pacific was located near the bridge. Several cruisers and destroyers were anchored out in the bay, as well as several transport ships. But there was no sign of the ship that had brought Mingji from Taiwan; perhaps it was transporting troops to places farther south.

  It was a bright, clear day with especially good visibility. The whole of the bay could be taken in, and several radio towers could be seen to the north.

  “It’s beautiful, just like a painting,” exclaimed Mingji in wonder.

  “You’ve got to see it—it’s quite different from what the books say,” said Zhong Renhe.

  Time flew for Mingji and his group. After admiring the view from Naval Headquarters, they crossed the bridge and wandered along the famous Manila promenade. Then it was time to assemble again. At 11:30, they reluctantly climbed back into the trucks for the drive back to Pandacan.

  The transport that had brought Mingji to the Philippines was in a convoy with three other transports, escorted by cruisers and destroyers. They were heading toward New Guinea under an air escort. But as they passed Mindanao, the convoy was ordered to abort its mission and head northward, as it was not possible to proceed farther.

  Days earlier, the American forces had attacked New Britain, where the Japanese had suffered one of their worst defeats: hundreds of planes and ships had been destroyed or damaged. The American forces had gained the upper hand in the Pacific and the Japanese were on the defensive. As a result, to avoid attack from the air, the convoy had been ordered to head north with no fixed destination. No one, not even the commanding officers, knew where they would put in to port.

  One morning it was announced over the public address system that third-degree rationing was to be implemented for the sake of the Japanese Empire. What this meant was that each man was restricted to one solid meal a day and a second meal of thin gruel. In addition, three cups of water were provided for drinking and washing. But that first day, no wash water was issued in the morning, and by lunch the mystery was solved: they were to be issued one cup of water to use as they wished and one mid-day meal of thin gruel. No other rations would be provided.

  The four hundred troops to which Peng Yonghui was attached had been confined below deck. The dismal hold was filled with the noxious smell of oil and illuminated by just three feeble battery-powered lights, which were lit only at the time of rising and during the one meal. The smell of sweat, vomit, and urine mixed with the smell of the oil created quite a stench. But as the amount of food and water was reduced, the smell of urine decreased.

  Most of the men had been sick, but they only vomited saliva or bile. One man went into convulsions after vomiting. The convulsions had resulted from spasms in his intestines. He vomited, but nothing came up, causing him to retch even more, which in turn caused even more violent spasms. It seemed as if his innards were being ripped apart. By the time the gruel was issued, he was lying motionless. Only then was it discovered that he was dead. The body was dragged out and thrown into the sea. On the third day of rationing, another man died; on the fourth day, three men died.

  At some point, all the men began to go around without clothes; some went entirely naked, others covered their shame only with a towel in the Japanese fashion.

  No one talked or walked around the hold, and gradually even the groaning stopped. Amid the silence, some men fell into a half-comatose state, a vague, dreamlike state. Consciousness had shrunk, as had physical awareness. Occasionally the ship would roll violently and loud thuds would be heard like distant cannon fire. But all of this was far away, as were the war and their families.

  Yonghui couldn’t help thinking how wonderful it would be if the black ship were to take them back to Taiwan. He knew he was dreaming and that they would more likely be taken to hell. Images of Azhen, his sad, loving wife, floated before his eyes. She was a strong woman, but sometimes seemed fragile and easily moved to tears.

  Yonghui then turned his thoughts to his baby daughter, Amei. He often thought of how odd women could be but how wonderful his daughter was. He knew he was a rough country boy, as thick-skinned as an ox and as tough as the rind of a bitter melon. He often thought that he had never really taken anything seriously until after he was married, but especially after he had a daughter. All his thinking, which was something new to him, revealed just how much he had changed.

  His wife and daughter were a source of strength for him, but also of weakness—his courage had diminished and his worries grew by the day. He had begun to fear death. He felt his fears made him a coward, but they also gave him the will to survive. As long as the ship wasn’t sunk and he wasn’t killed by bombs, he was stubbornly determined to survive and struggle on. The thought made him happy. He hadn’t ever thought so much about anything in his whole life. Maybe he wasn’t that dumb after all.

  Time seemed to have stopped. The progression from day to night no longer held meaning. But time was ticking away, minute by minute. After sailing for another eleven days, the transport was finally ordered to put the workers ashore on Cebu Island.

  Cebu Island lay sixty nautical miles west of Leyte Island. A mountain ridge ran its entire length; the military base was located on a plain slightly southeast of the mountains. Originally, the base had been the site of a secondary airstrip. But now that there had been a shift in the direction of the war, it had taken on new importance. Leyte Gulf was the door to Luzon, and Luzon could be used as a springboard to Japan. If Leyte were lost, the Philippines would fall, and Japan would be next. The strategic importance of Leyte was not lost on either the Japanese or the Americans.

  They were taken ashore at dawn. An unexpectedly stiff and cold southwest wind blew in the faces of the famished young men. They were emaciated and sallow and looked more like skeletons. Having been physically inactive, most found it difficult to stand up again after they jumped into the water or were pushed off the boats. Many were swept away by the waves. Every man who managed to stagger or claw his way onto the beach lay on the sand unable to move. The officers kicked them and struck them as they lay on the ground. They didn’t even have enough energy to ward off the blows. They finally got up and walked to their destination. About twenty barrels of water and some grain was ordered from the base.

  Azhen nearly died waiting for Yonghui’s letter, which at long last arrived. Azhen had four years of schooling to Yonghui’s six. To understand all of his letter, she had to read it several times and read it aloud to try the sounds. Azhen hid in her bedroom, smiling to herself. It was only in the last few days that she had discovered that Amei could smile, and she looked so pretty. She was smiling the day the letter arrived. Azhen smiled too but suddenly broke into tears. She held Amei in one arm and the letter in her other hand, and without shutting the door headed for her uncle Defu’s house. She had taken just a few steps before she changed her mind and set off for the Liu household. She thought it would be more interesting to talk with the Lius because Mingji had also been conscripted.

  The Lius’ house, which lay opposite Black Rock Cliff, was roofed in red Taiwan tiles and had yellow walls. The Lius had lived there for fifty years, since they had left the Peng family and set up their own household. At first their house was built of straw and thatch, but after typhoon damage they rebuilt with bamboo. After the children began working and could contribute their earnings, the house was roofed in tile. It was a typical Taiwanese farmhouse with a main hall and two side wings, but the house was unique in Fanzai Wood.

  There had been two other such farmhouses in the village. One belonged to Chen Qian, the head of the village, and the other—the oldest—belonged to the descendants of Xu Shihui. But none of the branches of the Xu family that remained in the village flourished. Most moved away or died; their fortune dwindled and their numbers declined. Then a large part of the Xus’ roof came off in a typhoon, and it looked like it would never be rebuilt to its original state. Fanzai Wood, after all, was a typical mountain village of little means in central Taiwan. A half dozen or so families had settled there fifty years ago in the days when the land was first being opened, but the population had barely doubled in that time.

  When Yonghui’s wife, Azhen, arrived at the Liu house, she found Dengmei sitting in the sun on the threshing ground as she kept a watchful eye on her grandchildren.

  “I just got a letter from Yonghui, Grandma. He says he’s fine, that his living quarters are okay, the food is all right, and that he is safe.”

  Dengmei smiled and looked quietly at Azhen as she poured forth a torrent of words. For some reason, whenever she saw Azhen she would think of her own distant youth, those dark, bitter days of sweat and blood, pain and exhaustion. Azhen’s days were so much better than hers, but they shared a similar passionate character: they were both impatient, sensitive, and delicate, but also stubborn and unbowed. But she had never expressed her own character the way Azhen did. In contemplating Azhen, Dengmei obtained a sort of compensatory satisfaction.

  Azhen had a husband who adored her, but now he was somewhere in the Pacific. Certainly a bleak future. Ahan had once loved her the same way. He had taken dangerous jobs to keep their hunger at bay. Then when the resistance to the Japanese occupation had begun, he was often far from home or in prison. He had almost died in jail. In the end he died at home, where he wanted to be. He had left her with a tumble-down shack, a bunch of children, and a piece of land on which to grow potatoes. Actually, she had cleared that piece of land herself, with her own sweat and blood and with her children in tow. She hoped Azhen’s life would be better than hers.

  FOUR

  •

  The Clouds and the Moon

  As of February 1944, Japanese military capability in New Guinea had been obliterated. By April, American planes from the base in Rabaul, New Britain, started attacking Japanese bases and the Japanese fleet in the Pacific. Now the seven airfields near Manila, especially those at Labao, and Cebu, which was being expanded, took on greater importance in the coming decisive battle. The thirty-fifth division commanded by Lieutenant-General Suzuki Shuusaku was based at Cebu.