Soldiers in Hiding by Richard Wiley

province of Bataan. There were prisoners there and we were being called to guard them. The guards they had, it seemed, were in need of some time to themselves, a bit of open warfare for their psychological well-being.
    Jimmy grew more silent in the days after Ike’s death. Now that I was aide to Nakamura we rarely saw each other and by the time we got to Bataan I was too busy to worry about what he thought of my miraculous return. If he knew I’d run, I wasn’t ashamed. If he was beginning to feel we should shoot like all the other Japanese, that was his problem. While working for the major I was assured of staying away from the front, and because I had survived such a brutal battle, I had all his confidence. I carried my clipboard, the same one Ike had used, and I walked about the camp doing my duties. Jimmy spent his free time with his face pressed against the wire, staring in at the poor prisoners of war.
    Most of the prisoners at Bataan were American, and because of my duties as aide I often came in contact with them. The conditions under which the prisoners lived were bad. Many people in America are still convinced of the brutality of the Japanese, but part of it was that we simply didn’t know how many prisoners there would be, we didn’t have the tools to handle them, not enough food, not enough housing. And running a camp was hard work. It was easy to get angry.
    When I came into contact with the prisoners, I kept my
knowledge of English to myself. I was responsible for supplies and security. When I walked among them my heart went out, but what was I to do? If I told them I was one of them they would despise me, and there was no way they could help me get back home. If I told them merely that I spoke English they would want to talk to me and the quaver in my voice might give me away, letting them know the feelings of sympathy I had for them and weakening my position with the major.
    One day when I got to Major Nakamura’s office there was a man from Los Angeles standing at tired attention in front of him. The man was the commander of a new group of prisoners, and had presented the major with a list of demands for better treatment, with requests for a change of diet, for better toilet facilities, for a place that the men could use for physical exercise. The American did not know it, but Major Nakamura was embarrassed. He’d been an elementary school principal before the war and had recently wondered aloud whether he’d ever be back in the school again. The man spoke to the major through an interpreter, a Filipino whose face did not change no matter what was said.
    â€œHe’s a prisoner. Tell him not to forget his position,” Nakamura told the man to tell the American. “These Americans… If we Japanese were being held captive we’d know how to act.”
    â€œWar has rules,” the man told the American. “Obey them.”
    Major Nakamura had gained a wide and unreasonable reputation as a disciplinarian but in truth he was a meek man, a man whose mind was set on surviving the war as much as mine was. He wanted to get home to his wife and family once again, to busy himself with the dainty discipline of the elementary school. Still, he knew belligerence when he heard it, even if the language used was English, and as the man from Los Angeles talked on the major got madder.
    â€œWatch out,” he said. “I have my orders. I will not have rowdiness.” But when the man heard the translation all he did
was laugh. He had not been a prisoner long. He still had a modicum of meat on his bones.
    â€œWhat?” said Major Nakamura.
    The interpreter looked from one man to the other, but neither spoke. “He didn’t say anything,” the interpreter told the major.
    â€œHe laughed. Doesn’t he know that his life is in my hands? Tell him not to laugh. Tell him if he laughs again I’ll kill him. See how he likes that.”
    When the