He had decided that they would not hold these hostages for much longer. They had served their purpose. To that end, he summoned Sergeant Inaba, who he was sure would be glad to carry out the order. Quickly, he explained what he had in mind.
“Shoot the men, spare the women,” he said.
“Hai,” the always dutiful sergeant replied. If Sergeant Inaba was surprised by the fact that he wasn’t to shoot the nurses that had annoyed them so much, he didn’t show it.
Once Inaba had left to carry out his orders, the major reached for his double rifle and balanced it over his shoulder, as he might have done if going out for some hunting.
When they left the university where he had been living for more than a year, he knew that he would not be returning and that where they were going, there would be no use for the few more-precious items that he owned, such as his radio and his books. He had not taken much more than his weapons and the uniform on his back. It had been his best uniform, at least. One way or another, he planned to die in it. All that remained unsettled was the when and how, but he knew that it would be soon.
The morning sun had risen, orders had been given, the die was cast.
Meanwhile, the hostages were making their own plans.
Mike MacGregor looked around uneasily at the room where they were being held, a dozen of them, the female nurses alongside the men. The thought of being nothing more than a bargaining chip felt demeaning.
He was not a man who was used to being told what to do. Before the war, he had been one of Manila’s leading businessmen, managing both a stock brokerage and an import-export business. Of course, the connections offered by his wife’s family had helped establish his business, but ultimately he was a capable businessman known for his honesty.
If he was sometimes abrupt or drove a hard bargain, he blamed it on his Scottish roots — his grandfather had immigrated to the United States just in time to serve in the Confederate army and had ultimately settled in Texas after the Civil War, looking for a bit of peace and wide-open country, giving rise to subsequent generations of tall Texans with odd Scottish names. However, MacGregor had also inherited his grandfather’s restlessness and wanderlust, eventually finding himself in the Philippines, seeking to make his own name. He had found success and started a family.
Now here he was, a prisoner of Imperial Japan. But not for much longer, if he could help it. MacGregor had reached his limit.
“How much longer do you think they’ll keep us?” one of the nurses wanted to know.
“As long as they want to,” said one of the men, who looked haggard and gray. Clearly, all the fight had gone out of him, and the man had resigned himself to his fate.
They all looked worse for wear, not having been fed properly since their arrival in the legislative building. They’d barely had enough water to drink. Their latrine facilities consisted of a filthy bucket in the hall. A single soldier stood guard beside the door. Judging by the shooting outside, the other two guards normally posted there had been needed to help defend the Japanese position.
The guard was a middle-aged Japanese, stocky and heavyset. He seemed to be one of the lowest-ranking soldiers, which, given his age, indicated an indifference toward military life. At this point in the war, the Japanese were rounding up every man that they could up to age forty-five for the regular army. Rumor had it that males between the ages of fifteen and sixty were being drafted in Japan, at least for national defense duties. Barely much older than Roddy, he mused. The draft apparently included young women. In Japan, with the Allies slowly closing in, there were no longer any civilians, only soldiers.
Anyhow, this guard had probably been judged too old for the physical activity of combat. Even so, MacGregor knew better than to underestimate the man. His appearance was typically sloppy, but he always managed to have a gleaming bayonet on his rifle. He was a mean son of a bitch who treated the American prisoners like dogs. In fact, guarding prisoners appeared to be his singular military talent.
The only Japanese who was worse to them was Sergeant Inaba. Fortunately, they had not yet seen his ugly face today. MacGregor wasn’t in any hurry to see him. Having grown up in Texas, MacGregor was convinced that lately Inaba had taken on the air of a cattleman sizing up steers for slaughter.
They didn’t know what the Japanese ultimately had in store for them, but it didn’t take a military strategist to figure it out. Some wanted to take their chances and hope for the best, but MacGregor didn’t plan on giving them a choice. He stood, drawing himself up to his full considerable height.
“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I want to get home to my family. If we don’t try something soon, we might not get another chance.”
MacGregor hadn’t bothered to keep his voice down. One benefit of this particular guard, at least from the prisoners’ perspective, was that the man didn’t know a word of English. Consequently, they could plot to their hearts’ content within earshot of the guard. A few of his fellow prisoners stirred or looked up at him in alarm. “What are you doing?”
“Getting us out of here, that’s what.”
“The Japanese might have something to say about that,” Nurse Rooney said. Her prim appearance signaled that she was a rule follower, even if those rules came from their captors.
MacGregor nodded at the window, toward the sound of gunfire. Clearly, an attack was taking place against the Japanese stronghold. “It sounds to me like they have their hands full right now.”
“But for how long?”
“Look, there’s one guard in the hall,” he replied. “You know as well as I do that the Japanese plan to shoot us. It’s now or never.”
“We don’t have any weapons,” Nurse Rooney pointed out.
It was true that the Japanese had taken the precaution of emptying the room of anything that might make a handy weapon. They had, however, left behind several heavy, rather uncomfortable wooden chairs for the prisoners to sit in. Based on their own physical dimensions, the Japanese probably hadn’t considered these chairs to be weapons, but MacGregor was far bigger than your average Japanese soldier.
“Get up,” he said to the nurse, who was sitting in one of the chairs.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, Get up, woman!” MacGregor barked.
Promptly, the nurse jumped to her feet.
MacGregor was surprised when Littleton stood and went to the door. The balding, middle-aged man had always come across as too timid in MacGregor’s book, but he seemed to have reached the same conclusion that this might be their last chance.
“I’ll call our friend in,” Littleton said.
“All right. Get ready, everyone.”
MacGregor stood against the wall closest to the hallway, just inside the door. He hefted the chair over his head.
His fellow prisoner went out in the hallway and made some fuss, gesturing for the guard to come into the room. From the angry noises made by the guard, it didn’t sound as if he was eager to comply. Finally, he shouted something irate and stomped into the room, bayonet at the ready.
Too late, he either sensed MacGregor behind him or felt the rush of air as sixty pounds of hand-carved chair descended in his direction. The guard started to turn, but not before MacGregor hit him with the chair.
The man went down as if he’d been poleaxed.
MacGregor sprang on top of him and delivered two swift punches for good measure. They hadn’t been necessary, but they sure felt good.