Roddy had come to realize that there was nobody prouder than a Japanese soldier, men who considered themselves superior to any of the civilians. They had been pumped up by their own propaganda. They certainly didn’t look superior to Roddy, especially compared to his tall father. The Japanese were short, often bowlegged, and many wore thick eyeglasses. But they were the ones with the guns, which was all that it took to make them superior.
In the distance, he heard a Japanese shout, which made his mind snap back to the present. He had better pay attention if he wanted to help his father and not get caught.
Working around toward the rear of the legislative building, he found himself in a kind of alley at the back of the structure. The alley was now choked with debris, including chunks of stone and broken tree limbs, from the various bombardments that Intramuros had already suffered. There were long rows of trash cans and piled boxes, indicating that the alley would have been used by the service staff who came and went through the back rather than the formal front entrance, or for taking deliveries.
On the other side of the alley stood a stone wall and beyond that another tall building, creating a kind of manmade canyon. The only way in or out was at the ends of the alley. It was a promising way into the building, and as far as Roddy could tell, it wasn’t guarded. He felt his spirits soar at his good luck, wondering if he had so easily found a way into the building, but he stayed cautious, creeping forward.
His hopes were soon dashed. Peering above a chunk of stone, he spotted the Japanese patrol moving toward him. He counted a dozen of them, all with rifles, looking this way and that. Apparently they had recognized the alley as a weak point and were on the lookout for any interlopers.
With a start, Roddy recognized their leader as the sergeant who had been at the university when the hostages were brought out — his father among them. Instinctively, he knew that this man was trouble. He had a cruel hatchet-like face with a perpetually angry expression.
There was no way that Roddy could avoid the Japanese patrol if he stayed where he was. He looked around for someplace to hide, where he might be able to tuck himself into the rubble, but unless he could shrink himself to the size of a mouse, he was out of luck. He looked again at the Japanese. They were close enough now that if he made a run for it, they might spot him. What should he do? He ducked down again, trying to make up his mind, feeling his heart hammering. He wished that he was older, bigger, stronger, and that he had a rifle like the GIs. He thought of the lieutenant with his shotgun and that soldier with the scar — either one of them could have licked these Japs in a minute.
But Roddy had only himself.
What would his father do in this situation? His father would fight back, that was what.
Roddy remembered one time when he had gotten into a fight with an older boy who had been picking on one of his friends. He had come home with a torn shirt and a bloody nose, having gotten the worst end of things. But the older boy had gotten the message that Roddy and his friends weren’t worth picking on. He had fully expected to get in trouble for fighting. His tall, red-haired father had towered over him, scowling down at Roddy.
Tears of anger and frustration that he’d held back in the wake of the actual fight had found their way out when recounting events. Roddy had wiped the tears away using the back of a hand with scraped knuckles from an ill-timed punch that had managed to hit a patch of gravel instead of the bully’s face when Roddy had briefly gotten the upper hand as the boys grappled on the ground.
His father had heard him out and then put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, saying with a sad smile, “It’s all right, son. Sometimes you have to stand up and fight for what’s right, even when you know you’re going to lose.”
Roddy’s hand went to his pocket, where he kept one of his most-prized possessions, a barlow knife that had been a Christmas present from his father. He clenched the pocketknife, reassured by its heft, but knowing that it was still a puny weapon. But it was all he had. There wasn’t any other choice. The Japanese soldiers were coming closer. He was cornered.
Desperate now, he slowly began to draw the knife from his pocket—
When he felt the touch on his shoulder, he started to jump up and would have cried out if strong hands hadn’t pulled him down and clamped over his mouth.
“Whoa now, pardner,” a voice whispered in his ear. “We’re on the same side.”
Roddy turned his head enough to see that it was the sniper with the scar who had grabbed him. Roddy recalled that his name was Deke. Roddy nodded, the sniper nodded back, and the soldier released his grip. Somehow the GI had managed to slip this close to the Japanese without being seen.
“They’re coming,” Roddy said. “Aren’t you going to shoot?”
