One night he felt like he had to go out for a walk alone. He decided to walk to the town of St. Fernando, where he had a girlfriend. He knew it was dangerous to be away from camp, especially alone and at night, because the enemy was all around, but he went anyway. There are some things worth risking your life for, and, at that age, a few minutes alone with your girlfriend is one of them.
Would I have risked my life in the war in search for the physical solace a woman provides? I’m a Duchene. The answer is yes. Most men would.
He was walking along a road, but not on the road itself. He walked a few feet to the side. He was several hundred yards from camp when he heard someone talking. He slowed his walk, and made sure he didn’t make any noise.
As he inched around a bend he suddenly came face to face with two human figures. They all froze in surprise when they saw each other. Dad said his senses became perfectly tuned. It had been a dark, moonless night, but his eyesight was suddenly perfect. His hearing shut out every sound except the movements of the two other men. He could smell the plants all around him.
He had been holding his military carbine with both hands, and had it pointed towards the ground. The two men also had their weapons—rifles of some kind—pointed to the ground. It seemed like they stood there looking at each other for hours, but it was actually only a few seconds, if that.
Dad yelled out, “Stop and identify yourselves!”
No one moved or spoke. Dad yelled again.
“Identify yourselves!”
Still no one moved. By then, Dad’s eyesight had adjusted to the shadows and he could now see their faces. They were Japanese soldiers.
Then, all of a sudden, the two figures brought up their rifles very fast, but to Dad it looked like they were moving in slow motion. With lightning speed, Dad also lifted his weapon, and opened up on them. Lead was flying all over the place. Dad could see the flashes from their rifles, and, at the same time, he could smell the burnt gun powder from his own rifle.
He fired round after round at the two soldiers, and, when his magazine emptied, without thinking he reloaded with lightning speed and continued firing.
Then, quick as it started, everything stopped. Dead silence. Smoke covered the area. There were three men. But there was only one left standing. Fortunately for me, that last man standing was my father.
The two Japanese soldiers were lying on the ground, arms and legs at odd angles. They weren’t moving. Whatever advantage they had, they squandered, and now were dead as a result. It reminds me of a line in Sergio Leone’s classic western movie The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly. “If you’re going to shoot, shoot. Don’t talk.” They had squandered their chance to shoot, and now were dead.
Dad checked himself to make sure he had not been hit. He hadn’t. He stood there for a while. Quiet. Not moving. Listening. Trying to hear if there were any more of them around. Making sure that the two dead soldiers didn't have any backup.
What Dad heard was one of the soldiers moaning. He wasn’t quite dead yet. After several minutes my father slowly walked up to him, all the while keeping his carbine ready and pointed at them, and, at the same time, looking around for others. As he got near them, he saw the soldier who was moaning lying on his side. He was looking right at my Dad. He was saying something to him. Dad could swear that the soldier was calling for his mother.
“Mom… mom… mom…”
The dying man started to reach into his jacket. Dad pointed his carbine at him, and yelled at him to stop. The soldier had the look of a person pleading, shaking his head to say that he no longer meant any harm. He kept saying, “Mom… mom…”
Dad let the dying man reach into his jacket. He brought out a white, folded sheet. The soldier held it out toward Dad.
“…mom…”
Dad reached out slowly, and took it. He stuffed it inside the front of his shirt.
The man kept calling for his mom until he died.
Dad stood there watching them for a while before he finally checked them for vital signs, but there were none. They were both dead.
Dad slowly backed away until he felt safe. He lost the urge to visit his girlfriend, and walked back to camp. Once there, he pulled out what the dying man had given him. It was a Japanese flag with Japanese writing on it. Almost all Japanese soldiers carried one.
That was the dead man’s last gift for his mom.
The next day, Dad and some of his buddies went out to check the area where the gun battle took place. The bodies were gone.
It was a common practice for Japanese soldiers to be given Japanese flags from their friends or family. Their friends and family members would sign it, and it was supposed to give them good luck and a safe return from the war. The Japanese soldiers usually kept the flags inside their shirts, next to their hearts.
When my father married my mother, he told her the same story, with one exception. He said that he was on guard duty when he came upon those Japanese soldiers. He felt that mom would be jealous if she knew that this all happened because he was on his way to see an old girlfriend.
“I’m not jealous,” she told me. “That was your Dad’s past.”
But the past has a way of staying with you. Dad told me that, after all the years that have passed, he still thought of those two soldiers he had to kill. He could remember their faces. He could remember that one soldier, in particular, who was calling for his mother. All sons love their mothers, even our enemies.
That flag has a lot of history. I have the flag hanging on the wall in my house. Every time I see it, it reminds me of my father. My father is always here with me. The flag represents my father’s life as a warrior in the jungles of the Philippines. The battles. The killings. It’s all there in that one piece of cloth.
My father’s generation is known as The Greatest Generation.
Just before my father was honorably discharged from the Army, he caught malaria in the jungles of the Philippines. An illness that not only almost cost him his life, but would make a return visit every few decades or so and try to finish the job.
When the war ended, and Dad was sent home, his skin was still a yellowish color from the malaria. His family must have been surprised at the way he looked when he showed up at their doorstep.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com Fifty Shades of Funny
@JimDuchene
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