Because the expansion of the Cebu airstrip was being carried out in secret, the runways and hangers had suffered little damage. A second runway had been built along the shore, at night, by the Taiwan Youth Labor Corps and some local prisoners. There were a few small bulldozers and steamrollers, but almost all the work was done by hand. Their first task had been to clear the nearby hills to park the airplanes, which were camouflaged with leafy tree limbs.

  The small town of Cebu where the base was located had been remade to serve the troops—stores, barber shops, bath houses, and comfort stations appeared. Of course, the facilities were for the use of officers and pilots.

  The residents of Cebu had all been conscripted into the Service Corps to help with growing and cooking vegetables. All able-bodied men, without exception, were forced to do heavy labor. Two hundred and fifty of them were attached to the Taiwan Youth Labor Corps, with whom they lived and worked. They seldom spoke and they stared coldly at the Japanese with their large eyes. They had a similar attitude toward the Taiwanese.

  The second runway was nearly complete. The part that had been finished was well camouflaged with tree limbs, but the air raids had increased, as had the death toll and damage. The workers were divided into two groups: one group worked on the runway near the aircraft parking apron, while the second kept the first, as well as the soldiers, supplied with everything, including ammunition. Manpower had been greatly depleted by air raids, illness, and sheer exhaustion, and many more men had been beaten to death or had died in work-related accidents. The medicine had long since run out, and the food supply from August onward was limited to local produce—vegetables, sweet potatoes, beans, coconuts, and yams. Their only source of protein was the small fish they caught in the ocean, but even that ceased after headquarters issued an order prohibiting fishing.

  Peng Yonghui had been at the Cebu base for two weeks. His strength and energy had been adequate for him to meet the demands of the heavy labor. He had been able to maintain his mental balance by focusing on thoughts of home, his parents, wife, and children. But the endless labor took its toll, and as his food decreased, his body and mind underwent many changes. In the end he was reduced to an instinctive level of existence; like everyone else, he worked like an automaton, never making voluntary movements or exchanging a word. Their minds were blank.

  “Hey, get moving! Watch out! Watch your head!” yelled Murakawa, waving his stick as he energetically supervised the men. He was only about five feet tall, dark-skinned, and thin-faced, with a mustache, a shiny nose, and staring eyes. He looked more a beast than a man.

  While on the job, the men were in constant fear of the squad leaders’ sticks and the officers’ leather whips. The men were frequently cursed, beaten, and treated like beasts of burden. At first they were so scared their bodies trembled, and the moment they heard the whips cracking over their heads they would wet their pants in fear. Gradually they came to take no notice of anything, to the point of having little or no feeling. Yonghui, Zhou, Fu, Xie, and Xu were all from Fanzai Wood. Their legs were black and blue from the blows from the sticks and whips, and they were covered with scratches from the thorny brush.

  Yonghui became like all the others—numb to the abuse, incapable of understanding or resentment. In the end, they stopped running for cover when the Allied planes dropped their bombs. They simply laid their tools aside and slowly left the work site to find a bush or a coconut palm to lie or curl up under while their supervisors shouted at them. Apart from the shouting of the squad leaders and the officers, no other human speech was heard. Only after the planes had screamed past did the men seem to awaken. They would inspect their own limbs and then look about for their friends and countrymen.

  “Hey, isn’t that Fu Zhichang?” The lower part of Fu’s body was mangled and covered with blood. It didn’t look like he’d make it.

  “Hey, Thin Savage’s head was blown off.”

  Then came the most solemn of times, when almost all of them were fully conscious: they carried the mangled bodies to the control tower and buried them on the slope near headquarters. It was a task that they had become accustomed to. And it was at that time that someone from the same area in Taiwan would clip some nails or hair to take home in the future.

  FIVE

  •

  Misfortune

  By mid-September 1944, the clouds of war were threatening the Philippines. On the twenty-first, the American army bombed Manila and, in a surprise attack, bombed the Japanese bases on Mindanao and Labao. It was clear that the final battle was approaching. The Japanese could see that the Americans had set their sights on the Philippines.

  Field Marshal Count Terauchi, the commander of the Southern Japanese Army, therefore put the Japanese forces on alert on October 10. Two days later, when the conditions for battle appeared ripe, he issued battle plans “Victory 1” and “Victory 2.” “Victory 1” was for the Philippines, “Victory 2” for Taiwan and the Ryuku islands. “Victory 3” was the unissued battle plan for the last stand on Japan itself.

  At the time, Liu Mingji—who had spent only three months at Pandacan—and the other technicians had been transferred to Nichols Field. At first Mingji’s duties were to train young technicians for the navy in basic repairs, welding, and maintenance work. Later their duties included mixing a highly toxic lead compound into highly volatile aircraft fuel as a stabilizing agent to prevent war planes from exploding during high-speed flight or from shocks during combat.

  In mixing the lead compound, the technicians were required to wear protective gear. The compound was very toxic, and if even a centimeter of skin were exposed to it, the nerves or the brain could be affected. There had been more than one tragic case of a technician losing his mind as a result of exposure.

  At the beginning of April, the Pandacan Oil District had been shut down in order to reduce losses and casualties. The facilities and personnel had been moved elsewhere. Having graduated from a technical college and being a trained mechanic, Liu Mingji was sent to the One-Three-Six Machine Works for Nichols Field. The machine works was located in the northern part of Manila. It was widely touted to be an iron works, but in reality it was a weapons maintenance facility under the army.

  On September 21, the night of an air raid on the facility, Mingji was working in North Building, No. 4. Only at the height of the bombing were they given orders to leave the building and seek shelter outside.

  He didn’t know what time he regained consciousness or if he had even been unconscious after being swept away by a violent blast, nor did he remember how he climbed out of the debris that had covered him. He couldn’t stop coughing and the back of his throat had a salty taste; his nostrils were filled with the smell of gunpowder. He coughed and retched repeatedly. Enveloped in a thick smoke, he could faintly see a bright, yellow light. The light changed from yellow to orange to red to gray. It was the sun, he thought.

  He wondered if he had died. He looked down at his chest, his stomach, then his arms, hands, and fingers. Then he moved his legs, carefully examining himself. He wasn’t dead; he hadn’t even been wounded. He was becoming more conscious of his surroundings. Then he stood up.

  Suddenly an air force ambulance appeared, and he was pulled in. The people in the ambulance had all been wounded. Huang Huosheng—Nozawa Saburo—was there; his calf was a bloody mess and his face a deathly white. Mingji quickly turned away, then looked back.

  “Broken?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Huang Huosheng was the only other person from Taiwan left from Pandacan Oil District—the others had all been sent elsewhere. And now he was half dead. Mingji had also run into Squad Leader Aoki Kunizo and Squadron Leader Masuda Soichi.

  Since August, the Taiwanese workers had received military training and were called “War-Zone Volunteers.” Liu Mingji had been given the rank of Soldier, Second Class, and his pay had been increased from $60 to $140. In actuality he received $70 each month, with the other $70 being deposited in an army postal savings account.

  Mingji’s duties were light and he had plenty of time to talk with people, get homesick, and think of his family and friends. Aside from the twenty-odd fighter planes that were usually kept camouflaged, no other planes ever landed at Nichols Field. Mingji had been in the war zone for a year and was already twenty-six years old. The year he had spent there seemed more like ten; he was no longer the immature technician he had once been.

  Mingji lived in a barracks close by the meter-high, beaten red-earth perimeter wall. The roofs and sidings of the buildings were all of rough-hewn, pale-gray ash planks. The October sun was still scorching hot and seemed intent on cooking a person’s skin. In the morning, after a meal of yam and vegetable gruel, there would be no work to do. Mingji and a half dozen companions such as “Squid” Wang, “Crooked Mouth” Li, and Old Man Jiang would drag out their bed planks or old bedding and sit around and chat idly.

  “There’s been no sign of an enemy plane for twenty hours now,” said Squid Wang.

  “Perhaps the fleet has attacked them,” said Crooked Mouth Li.

  “There’s nothing to bomb here,” said Mingji.

  A couple of months earlier, such idle chatter would have been unthinkable. Now they could talk about whatever they wished.

  The weather was good and the sky cloudless, save in the south. It was from that direction that the sound of big guns could be heard. It was no longer just rumor: war on land and at sea were near at hand. During the early air raids, the shadow of death hovered over one and all, but the enemy hadn’t been seen and the war still seemed far off. The situation had changed: war and death were in the air around them, but they managed to achieve a certain detachment from their fears and trepidations and to savor their new sense of freedom. Inevitably, they were disturbed by the insecurity and emptiness they experienced, but such feelings would disappear as soon as they were together.

  “I wonder how much longer this will last,” said Crooked Mouth Li.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Huang Huosheng as he hobbled forward.

  No one took any notice of him. Squid Wang turned his back to him and said, “When the bombs begin to fall, all you have to do is hide and save your skin.”

  “Mr. Wang, how can you have so little confidence?” said Huang Huosheng, frowning.

  “The Americans have too many planes, their bombs are huge, and their machine guns are merciless,” said Old Man Jiang. He wasn’t really that old, but he seemed to be the most mature member of the group. “Nozawa, are you really that confident?”

  “Old Man Jiang, you …” said Huang Huosheng, struggling to his feet.

  “Are you going to report us again?” asked Mingji.

  “Forget it. You’re one of us, not a Japanese officer.”

  “How can you say that Nozawa Saburo is the same as the rest of us?”

  “I am Nozawa Saburo, and don’t you forget it,” said Huang Huosheng as he hobbled away.

  “Better watch out—he really is going to report us.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to him.”

  “Hey, Nozawa,” called out Mingji. Mingji approached him and in Hakka asked, “Tell me in Hakka, are you really going to report us?”

  “Why? Are you scared?”

  “If I’m not afraid of bombs, what is there left to be afraid of? Don’t waste your time. Hang on to the life you have and make it back to Taiwan.”

  “Stop being sarcastic. I understand you.”

  “Fine,” Mingji said, turning to leave. “Just don’t go near the airstrip during the raids or you might not manage to get away.”

  Mingji felt sad. Since his arrival in Manila, he had spent more time with this collaborator than anyone else—ten months all together. Mingji had seen and heard about all of Huang’s misdeeds; he had even been beaten by him. The blood flowing through their veins ought to have been the same—they were from the same area of Taiwan and both spoke Hakka. Sometimes he saw something of himself in this man and wondered if he might not be like him if the circumstances were different. He felt a certain contempt for himself.

  He assured himself that he would never be like Huang. He also thought about how his father had suffered and how he himself had lost a brother.

  The thought of his father calmed his mind. He felt more secure being the son of such a father, and it enabled him to look with scorn on a person like Huang. Then he thought of Chen Qian, the headman of his village. Why did the bad side of such people always come to the fore when they were given a position of authority? It seemed that such positions were created to bring out the worst in people.

  All the spying, betrayals, and capturing and torturing of people in Taiwan had been done by the Taiwanese themselves! That’s what his mother had told him. She often repeated his father’s words that most Taiwanese were collaborators.

  Were most Taiwanese collaborators? The very thought pained him.

  Had the geography and climate of the island influenced the character of its people? No. Had the three hundred years of Taiwan history distorted the character of the people? No. That was an insult to the Taiwanese. Then was it the situation in Taiwan that brought out the worst in people? It was in a plant’s nature to turn toward the sun; it was in the nature of an animal to possess the instinct for survival. But man, who was endowed with a free will, could choose between good and evil, life and death. Man also possessed the instinct for survival and the desire for a better life. Perhaps it was this combination that was the source of humankind’s tragedy and the root of evil.

  Mingji’s thoughts raced on—he thought about the island’s past, he thought of being called a “Chinaman” by the Japanese; he thought of the motherland, mainland China, a vague, dark shadow.

  He wondered if all the people of his island were collaborators. Not a happy thought. Perhaps it arose due to the doubts he had about himself and his origins, which seemed to exist like a riddle or a dream. He was always comparing himself to the Japanese, comparing the Taiwanese with the Japanese. There were differences, but they were differences that were difficult to articulate.

  He remembered an incident that had occurred when he was working at the One-Three-Six Works, an altercation that had arisen between the Taiwanese and the Japanese in a restaurant one day. Headquarters had sent some men over to have a look at the engines for Zero fighters and pick out a number of them. Those responsible expressed satisfaction with what they saw, and the officer in charge of the workers had given them a half day off. It was the only break they had had in months.

  “Let’s go blow our money!” They hadn’t been able to send money home and hadn’t had a chance to spend a cent, so they all had a good deal of cash on hand. After some discussion, about thirty of them decided to go to the club for a good time. Their group also included Sergeant Aoki and four Japanese soldiers. Normally the two groups never mixed socially, but since they had all been awarded time off, the gulf between them seemed to have narrowed.

  Sergeant Aoki and his men sat at one table and the Taiwanese at two other tables. The Japanese had taken off their shirts and sat there bare-chested. They were soon singing and dancing, telling dirty jokes, and making obscene gestures.

  The Taiwanese were also laughing and joking loudly, and there was a nonstop stream of dirty jokes. But they did maintain a degree of sobriety and controlled themselves. After they finished their wine, they remained alert and seldom abandoned themselves completely. The food was ample, but they remained unsatisfied. Soon they were playing finger games. Then the games became a competition between tables.

  “Hey you bums, we challenge you if you dare!”

  “Why not? You scared you won’t win?” The challenge was taken up quite readily.

  “We’re not scared of you Manchu slaves,” jibed Koiso, a Japanese soldier.

  “Koiso, why call us Manchu slaves?” objected Mingji in a proud tone of voice.

  “You are Manchu slaves. So what?”

  “Shut up!” shouted Mingji in anger.

  “Enough! You can’t call people names!” Mingji’s companions spoke up one after another. The epithet “Manchu slave” produced a great deal of shame among the Taiwanese. In fact, the Japanese had forbidden the use of this insult.

  “Manchu slaves! That’s what you are. So what? Come over here.”

  Koiso was a small fellow and usually quite timid. But now, in the company of his fellows, he was a strutting sparrow who thought himself a hawk.

  “Wake up, Koiso,” said Mingji as he straightened up and went forward to meet him.

  Mingji had been involved in one fight since his arrival in Manila. His opponent had been a Japanese soldier. A fair fight was permitted by the army during off-duty hours as long as there were witnesses present. At that time, the diminutive soldier had suddenly lost his nerve, apologized, and left. Mingji had been pleased and soon began to regard the loudmouthed soldiers with contempt. Koiso’s loud behavior would probably end up being a lot of thunder with no rain. Mingji was happy to risk the fight, as Koiso was outmatched. He pressed forward.

  “Manchu slave. You shit!” shouted Koiso as he retreated.

  “Dog!” said Mingji contemptuously.

  “Mr. Liu, how can you insult us like that?” asked Aoki, stepping forward. They knew that the Taiwanese privately referred to them as “dogs” or “animals.”

  “What about Koiso? He called us ‘Manchu slaves.’”

  “That’s his business.”

  “He insulted all of us.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You can’t talk to us that way.”

  “But he can’t insult us that way.”

  “Liu Mingji,” said Aoki with the air of a superior officer, “what kind of attitude is that for you to take with me?”

  “Sergeant Aoki, please remember that we’ve been drinking,” said Mingji calmly. Mingji knew that the army tended to look the other way if men got into fights after drinking, as long as they weren’t too excessive.

  “So, Mr. Liu, are you saying we should settle this with a fight?” said Miyamoto, who had been egging them on. Mingji had heard that Miyamoto was an accomplished sumo wrestler.