Samurai & Snipers полностью

Perhaps if she had been ten years younger, Tanigawa might have found her appealing. But no, he would stick with his Filipino mistress, who was prettier and much less troublesome. These nurses had volunteered to become prisoners in order to care for the thousands of civilians being held on the university campus. The other prisoners called them “Angels” for what they were doing. Tanigawa called them annoying do-gooders, always complaining about “conditions.” Conditions this, conditions that. Apparently the conditions were never good enough.

He studied the tall prisoner with an indifferent gaze. It was not the first time that he and this prisoner had crossed paths, but Tanigawa wasn’t about to show the prisoner that he was worthy of recognition or that Tanigawa knew his name, which he did. MacGregor. The major remained seated, which was partly a snub showing that the prisoner had no honor and therefore wasn’t worthy of Tanigawa standing to greet him. There was also the egotistical reason that although Tanigawa was tall for a Japanese, the prisoner would have towered over him by several inches. Tanigawa was too proud to allow that.

What the major didn’t know about the prisoner — not that he would have cared — was that the man had a Filipino wife from an upper-class family and three boys who had been born in Manila. Before the war, the tall man had been quite a successful businessman and was well known in the city’s wealthiest circles. He didn’t care for taking orders from the Japanese — or anyone else, for that matter. The arrival of war had meant his status as an American citizen made him an enemy. As Filipinos, a subjected people rather than outright enemies, MacGregor’s wife and sons still dwelled at home.

Nearby, Sergeant Inaba made no effort to hide his sneer. He kept one hand on his cudgel, as if eager to use it and cut the tall prisoner down to size.

“Speak!” Inaba ordered.

“Hello, Major,” the tall man said in a Texas drawl. Although Tanigawa spoke English, he found the man difficult to understand, with all those vowels stretched out. “You remember me, don’t you? Mike MacGregor.”

Tanigawa did indeed remember him, this Texan with the Scottish name. He also remembered his previous complaints, which the major found tiresome. Again, he didn’t want to give the prisoner the satisfaction of knowing he was recognized, so he asked curtly, “What is it?”

MacGregor’s jaw muscles worked as if he was biting back what he really wanted to say. The lack of food had reduced him to bone and sinew, but he was still a strong-looking man. “It’s about the food, Major. You see, we don’t have enough.”

“You have all the food we can spare,” Tanigawa snapped.

Nurse Rooney spoke up. “If you don’t feed us more, people are going to start dying. They’re in very poor health, you see. These are terrible conditions.”

There was that word again. Tanigawa just stared at her until she cleared her throat officiously and looked away.

He wasn’t quite telling the truth regarding the food supplies. Tanigawa had sold at least half the food allotted to the prisoners. He had to pay for his mistress somehow.

Then again, the situation at Santo Tomas had been steadily worsening even before Tanigawa came on as the prison camp administrator.

For the first couple of years, there had been barely enough to eat. In the last months of 1944 and now early in 1945, conditions had gone from barely tolerable to miserable because administration of the internment camp had moved from civilian Japanese authorities to the military.

It was no secret that Japanese officers despised prisoners, whom they saw as having no honor. Tanigawa was no exception. In their view, a good Japanese, even a civilian, would do the honorable thing and kill him- or herself rather than be taken prisoner. In fact, Japanese soldiers who allowed themselves to be captured were reported as killed, mainly for the benefit of their families, so that they did not have to live with dishonor.

By the time MacArthur’s troops landed, the thousands held at Santo Tomas were starving, pure and simple. The Japanese military did not really give a damn, not when they were themselves fighting for survival.

Food rations were cut and given to Japanese troops instead — or sold on the black market, which was exactly what Tanigawa had been doing. Of course, he was sure that his supply officers were already taking their cut before the weekly supply inventory even reached his desk.

Out in the corridor, they heard the muffled cries of a young woman. The prisoner delegation looked over their shoulders in alarm, but the Japanese in the room seemed unperturbed because this sort of incident was now an almost daily occurrence.

Through the door, he saw that some of his men had brought in a Filipino girl. He’d gotten a glimpse of her — young, frightened, her shabby dress torn. Her piteous cries echoed through the halls.