We will mark that officer

After lunch I noticed several large, rough-edged wooden crates being lined up on the ground across the road from the garden. The crates were roughly two feet wide and six feet long. I recognized immediately what they were for.

          “No tellin’ how soon I’ll be put in one of those,” a young sergeant joked as he walked by.

          “I will consider myself very lucky if I even get one,” said another soldier.

          “Lucky?” I asked as I handed him a tin cup filled with water. “Why would you be lucky to get a coffin?”

          “Because it means they at least found my body, miss.” He finished his water with a loud gulp. “Some boys out there are blown to bits so bad, there ain’t nothin’ left when the guns are done with ‘em. They simply disappear.”

    

      Nothing left? That was a terrifying thought.

          “Get up, you damn coward!”

          I was jarred from the frightful thoughts of battle when I heard the voice of a Union officer down the road. He was yelling at one of the young soldiers. The soldier had been marching along with the rest of his regiment heading towards the front when apparently he had lost his nerve. The sounds of guns booming in the distance and the sights of the bloodied and wounded being transported past him must have been too much for him to handle. He was crawling along the side of the road on his hands and knees. Tears were streaming down his face.

          “Get up and march, you worthless coward!” the officer yelled again.

          “I . . . I can’t, sir,” said the quivering soldier. “My legs w-won’t move.”  My heart ached for him. He looked like a homesick teenager.      

         By that time Tillie had run up beside me to see what was happening. “Oh, that poor boy,” she said.

         We watched as the officer kicked the soldier in the ribs knocking him flat into the dirt. “Get up now, or I will beat you to death!” yelled the officer. He kicked the soldier again. He grabbed a rifle from another passing infantryman and used the butt of the gun to hit the poor soldier three or four time on his shoulders and the back of his head. The soldier appeared to be unconscious so the officer simply left him where he lay.

          A couple of the other men ran over and picked him up and carried him up to the house. It would be several hours until the young man revived. In addition to the blows on the back of his head he had also been suffering from sunstroke received during the long march.

          “We will mark that officer for this,” said one of the soldiers who had brought the injured man inside.

          “What do you mean?” asked Tillie.

          “It means that in the midst of battle, that officer will have more guns than those of the enemy to worry about,” said the soldier. I was later told that some of the most cruel and inhuman officers fell in battle that way, from being shot “accidentally” by their own side.

--from Time Trip #4: Killing for Country 

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After the Bomb

          “We need to cross this river,” Zammie told Miss Hayata.

          “How? The bridge is destroyed and these people are too sick to swim.”

          “I’ll figure out a way. You stay here, Kyla. Keep an eye on Misses Nakamura and Toshio.”

          “Where are you going?” she asked.

Zammie looked around for any clues to salvation. “I just wanna check along the shoreline. There has to be a way across. I’ll be back soon.”

          “Okay. But hurry, Zammie!”

          Zammie walked quickly past the growing throng of injured people and continued along the sandy bank of the bending river. He stepped down into a gulch. Next to a small dock he saw a flat-bottomed boat called a punt that was about the size of a pickup truck. The boat was maroon in color and had a square-cut bow. It had been pulled up onto shore. The bodies of six badly burned dead men were lying in the sand around the boat. The awful stench of burnt flesh permeated the air. The men must have been getting ready to push the boat into the water right as the bomb exploded.

          Zammie carefully stepped over the men. He tried his best not to look at them, but he couldn’t help it. Their faces were charred red and black. Their eyes melted out. Their skeletal mouths frozen open in eternal screams. Zammie noticed one of the men was missing his front two teeth. Their fingers and legs were roasted away. Zammie wondered how old they were and if they had any children who were waiting somewhere for them to return.

          He pushed the heavy boat into the water. A tall bamboo pole was inside the punt so Zammie used it to steer the boat up the river by pushing the pole against the river bottom. The boat moved slowly along the lazy river passing through schools of orange and white koi that were swimming near the surface. Zammie was a little surprised they were even alive. I wonder if they have any idea what has happened, thought Zammie. How simple a goldfish’s life must be.

         

Gray smoke hovered over the water and a canopy of ash and fog still blotted out the midday sky. A thickening film of gray dust and powder began to settle on the leaves of the trees along the shoreline. There was a spooky quietness surrounding him even though he knew there were hundreds, maybe thousands now, of people waiting up in the park. As the punt rounded the bend he saw his cousin and the Nakamuras still waiting near the trees.

          -- from Time Trip #4: Killing for Country 

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KILLING FOR COUNTRY  

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THE JOURNEY TO ANCIENT GREECE 

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The Hunting Trip

          The first day of our hunting trip was a beautiful day to be outdoors. White, puffy clouds decorated the sky. The chirping and chattering of birds could be heard coming from all directions. The forest was filled with endless pine trees, ash, and maples. The abundance of green leaves and pine needles made it difficult for me to see too deep into the woods. I began to wonder how I would be able to shoot any arrows accurately in this thick environment.

          “These woods haven’t been cleared for years,” said Tisquantum. “The people who used to do the burning have all passed away from the plague.”

          “What do you mean, burning?” I asked.

          “They’ll burn part of the forest each season to keep it from growing too thick. If one part is burned one season, it will be left to regrow the following season while another part is burned.”

          “And now there aren’t enough people to do this?”

          “Not yet. And the forest can grow back quickly. Sometimes faster than a village can grow back.”

          
          “Eat no fish today,” Quadequina told me the day before we left, “for tomorrow we hunt.”

          “Why no fish?” I asked.

          “The deer can smell your breath,” he said. I thought he was joking, but he was dead serious. A few other men joined our hunting party, and none of them ate fish or smoked tobacco the day before we left. We woke up early on hunting day, and I took a bath in one of the cold creeks nearby. It was cold as ice, but it sharpened my senses. Our hunting party included Quadequina and Tisquantum, three other Pokanoket men, and Oguina. I found out that it actually wasn’t that rare for women to sometimes join a hunting party. If larger animals were killed, the women would help skin and butcher the beast on the spot and then help haul it back to the village.

          After our baths, we rubbed some musky-smelling leaves and flowers on our arms and legs and put on our breech-clouts. Wearing little clothing made us more sensitive to our surroundings and more apt to pay attention to rustling twigs or crunching leaves. We drank plenty of water, but ate just a small breakfast of maize and deer jerky.

          “Be always on the alert,” said Tisquantum. “Look for the deer in every object you see. A hundred deer will see you before you see one. When you find that one, you must act first.”

          We were blessed by the village shaman, and off we went, heading west into the trees. There was no speaking once we were far out from the village. I wore green and black face paint and had my hair and skin slicked with fresh oil to keep off the mosquitoes. We tracked quietly through the woods in a spread out rectangle formation. We used voiceless signals for communication such as sign language and low whistles. I was taught to walk with precision. Every step was checked. Every moving branch or spot of color in the forest was studied patiently, no matter how far off in the distance it was. We hunted up wind so the animals ahead couldn’t smell us while also trying to keep between the animals and the sun so we had the best light.
 

      Tisquantum told me earlier about some of the different methods the Pokanoket used to capture deer. It wasn’t always possible to simply track one down and shoot it with arrows. Ingenuity was often required. Sometimes the Indians would cover their heads with grass or reeds and then crawl up on a deer in the open until they were within fifteen or even ten yards, and then rise up to a kneeling position quickly and fire their arrows or throw a spear. Sometimes a group of Indians would encircle the deer from various directions, herding it towards a river or lake to trap it where it might be captured in a net or shot down.

          I started out that first trip with small targets. I tried hitting a squirrel. Then a bird. No success on either, but I was getting closer. We made camp on the first night in an open field and slept under the stars. We had a small fire pit where Quadequina roasted the squirrels that he and Oguina had killed. We unstrung our bows at night to keep the shape of both the bow and the sinew firm. The sinew had to constantly be checked for stretching because it was apt to loosen if it became wet or too hot. Checking our arrows each night was also a must because over the course of a day’s hike the feathers or heads might become unsettled or loose. While we attended to our gear, Tisquantum quietly told us stories about the amazing things he had seen in Europe, but I was so exhausted I fell asleep before he was finished.  

--from Time Trip #3: 

Witness to the First Thanksgiving

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Under Siege

Then the children watched as a gang of young men dressed in brown shirts and pants approached the synagogue just a few doors away and began throwing bricks through all the windows.

“No!” Marga gasped.

Other villagers threw torches into the synagogue and within seconds a large fire began to swell inside the sanctuary. Soon the flames were burning through the wooden roof.

“Who are those people?” asked Zammie.

“I don’t know,” said Marga. “I don’t recognize any of them.”

Marga noticed a few of the men who were wearing brown military shirts began walking towards her house. Nearly everyone in the street was carrying a torch in one hand and a large rock in the other.

“They’re coming this way!” said Marga.

“Are they gonna hurt us?” asked Susan. Her eyes were filled with terror.

Marga could hear her father and Grandpa talking downstairs. “Let’s go downstairs. Follow me!” she said.

Marga led the other children out of her room and down the hardwood steps. When the children arrived downstairs they found Frederick, Edith, and the Grandparents standing in the dark. They were all looking out the front windows.

“Stay back!” said Edith when she saw Marga.

“What are they doing, mother? Why are they burning the synagogue?” asked Marga.

At that moment a brick flew through the kitchen window with a loud crash and landed on the floor. Susan began crying and ran to her mother.

“Everyone, this way!” said Frederick. He herded his parents and the children towards a small room in the back of the house just as a second brick flew through another window and landed on the floor next to Zammie’s feet. Chipped shards from the brick and glass shot up and stung Zammie’s bare shins on impact. He was grateful he had put his shoes back on.

“Watch out, Zammie! Are you okay?” asked Kyla.

“I’m fine. Follow Mister Silbermann!”

Everyone went into the small room. Frederick kept the door open a little to make sure no torches were thrown inside the house. Grandma and Grandpa held each other close. Edith held one daughter in each of her arms. All three of them had tears streaming down their faces.

--from Time Trip #4: Killing for Country

 

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Bonsai!

The three children walked along the streets through the busy market area until they turned along a narrow road leading past a tram station and into a residential neighborhood. The houses were larger than the ones the cousins had seen ten years earlier. They had all been built within the previous few years and they still looked new.

Sadako’s house was a split-level structure made of bamboo and plaster with one side built up to three stories. There was a plum tree out front next to two bonsai trees. One was manicured into the typical “informal upright” style but the other was formed using the bankan or “twisted” technique where the trunk zig-zags back and forth towards the top. Narrow walk paths marked with rounded stones and green vegetation led from house to house. It was a peaceful neighborhood, but the nearby tram station disrupted the tranquility each time one of the cars rolled in for a stop.

          Sadako led the two cousins up onto the wooden porch of her home. Various pairs of sandals and shoes were lined up near the sliding door. Sadako took her shoes off and quickly flipped them towards the end of the line. Zammie and Kyla placed their shoes down with a little more care. Sadako threw the front door open and walked inside.

          “Mom! I’m home!”

--from Time Trip #4: Killing For Country

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WITNESS TO THE FIRST THANKSGIVING 

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Festival of Purim

    

    “This blanket is so pretty.” Kyla was feeling the plush material of a red cloth that was hanging over a small wooden table. It was a vibrant crimson color that reminded Kyla of Little Red Riding Hood.

          “We use that as King Ahasuerus’s mantle during Purim,” said Marga.

          “What’s Purim?” asked Kyla.

          “You are a shiksa,” said Susan staring at Kyla with her wide, doll-like eyes.

          “A what?” asked Kyla.

          “Susan, be nice,” said Marga with a scowl. “It just means non-Jewish girl, Kyla.”

          Zammie looked at Kyla and grinned. “Yeah, she’s a shiksa.” Kyla ignored her cousin.

          “The Festival of Purim celebrates the Jewish people’s deliverance from Haman in ancient Persia,” continued Marga. “He had planned to kill all the Jews in the empire way back then, but his plans were ruined by Mordecai and Queen Esther.”

          “And how do you celebrate?” asked Kyla. “Are there dances and stuff.”

          “Yeah, people dress up in costumes, watch performances, we eat a lot. We also bundle up gifts for charity.”

--from Time Trip #4: Killing for Country

Images of recent Purim Festivals 

 

Read more about the Purim Festival here. 

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Little Boy

At 8:15am, the bomb bay doors opened and “Little Boy” was released along with three recording instruments designed to measure and record output levels of the bomb upon detonation. Once the bomb was dropped, the Enola Gay immediately banked into a sharp turn knowing that they had little time to scramble clear. All crew members then put on dark glasses and prepared for the blast.

          Zammie walked over to help Kyla stack some of the chipped, maroon tiles when a glimmer in the sky caught his attention. He looked up and saw three planes set amongst the pale blue backdrop like mosquitoes on a calm lake.

          This is it, isn’t it?

          Zammie watched the lead plane for a moment when suddenly it began to turn at a tight angle, nearly circling completely around.

          Too late to do anything now. I wonder what will happen to us? I should grab Kyla and run . . . but where? There’s no time.

          “What are you doing, Zammie? Come help us.” Kyla was still bustling along like a good soldier.

          Zammie felt helpless. All the energy left his body. He bent over to pick up one of the square-foot tiles and it felt like a lead anvil in his hand. All of the activity in the neighborhood around them seemed to slow down.

         

Suddenly a bright light appeared less than a mile away right above the southern skyline. Zammie’s first thought was that the sun had shown up right next to the earth. The light was so bright that just a quick glimpse caused terrible pain in the eyes. He felt like someone had pointed a floodlight straight into his pupils. Some sort of pulsing shock wave could be seen moving rapidly towards them, spitting up dirt, trees, and buildings as it rolled across the land like a demonic hedgehog. A deep rumbling sound accompanied the pulse and Zammie felt the ground beneath him begin to tremble. Then a scorching surge of hot air rushed through the residential area, picking up people and houses alike, and flinging them back as if they were empty candy wrappers. 

-- Little Boy

from Time Trip #4: Killing for Country

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Stills from the animated film Barefoot Gen.

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