By Laurel Wood

 

I wake to the taste of saltwater on my tongue and throbbing behind my eyes. Heat sears my back as I bob in turquoise waves. Below and around me float crates imprinted with Japanese symbols, empty life vests, an object that looks like a severed pale arm…

 

Two jets roar overhead, and I recognize the insignia. Mustangs, our boys. I draw a breath to yell—maybe I can get their attention—but the intake of fumes burns my throat, and I choke. Roiling smoke blackens the crystalline sky. It’s too much. I can’t—

 

* * *

 

When I open my eyes again, sand coats my mouth. A breeze carrying the tang of the sea rustles branches above me. I spit out the grit and heave myself onto my elbows, my head still pounding. The debris I clung to is gone, and so is the hell ship that was transporting two hundred Japanese sailors and fifty American prisoners. For the first time in years, I’m alone.

 

I stand, swaying like a gale-tossed palm. The shore extends for a mile or more before dissolving into the endless surf. About a hundred yards away, a blob mars the white beach. I stagger toward it, every step an eternity.

 

Tugging on the body, I reveal Sergeant Larsen’s weathered face, his lips parted in what’s almost a smile. But his lungs don’t rise and fall, and when I check his neck, the absence of a pulse confirms the truth I already knew. 

 

I’ve never seen such peace in death. More than resignation—acceptance. After all the horrors he experienced. 

 

Aboard the prison ship, when a Jap accused me of stealing his mess tin, Larsen accepted the punishment for me, barely flinching as the brute pistol-whipped him over and over. He stumbled into our cell covered in more blood and bruises than flesh. I should have been the one to comfort him, but instead he rubbed my back until I stopped sobbing. 

 

When I glanced up, I noticed that his two front teeth had been knocked out and started moaning apologies again. He just chuckled. “Don’t worry about it, son. I’ll schedule a dentist’s appointment as soon as we get home.” 

 

Now he can’t keep that promise. 

 

I choose a spot beneath a cluster of palms and rake my fingers through the cracked soil to the dampness underneath. My tears and sweat intermingle as the hole grows to a roughly human shape. I haul Larsen to the edge, but I lose my grip and he flops onto his face. I curse, climbing into the grave to turn him over. Does his position matter? Maybe not to him, but somehow it does to me. 

 

After I finish the burial, I gather two strips of driftwood, lash them together with a vine, and stake the cross on the mound. The hot wind shifts direction and chills. Storm clouds appear on the horizon, ballooning into monsters that vomit a downpour.

Larsen’s grave marker shivers, so small, so frail. Like me.

 

* * *

 

Minutes elapse. Or maybe hours. The moisture saturating my shirt reminds me that I need water to survive, and I may not have another opportunity to collect any. I grab a bucket from the wreckage and hurry to dump out the muck. A shaft of sunlight cuts through the drizzle.

 

What about food? I investigate the scattered crates, straining to pry open a lid with a Japanese label I can’t read. The tins inside reek of soy sauce. Others rattle, probably full of rice. I swore that once I escaped I’d never eat either again. I guess I’ll have to eat my words instead.

 

The next crate contains clothing, blankets, and socks. I set a few items aside and toss the rest into a heap. Not much purpose for wool in this climate. Underneath I find a stack of pocket knives. I slide one into my dungarees. 

 

A few yards into the tree line, my bare feet touch a patch of dry ground and I spread a blanket across it. With more scavenging, splintered boards form the walls of my shelter and palm fronds the roof. Since the rain has subsided, I drape my clothes across a log outside. The sun is setting, but before I sleep, I have one last task to complete. 

 

I scratch a line in the wood beside my makeshift door. That’ll be my calendar. Hopefully I won’t have to rely on it for long.

 

* * *

 

Day Two

 

Edith and I walk arm in arm along the California coast where I proposed. I pick her up and swing her around. She laughs. When her toes hit the sand, the scene disintegrates into a vacant expanse of blinding white and glittering blue. The distance from her aches like an old stab wound that refuses to fully heal. 

 

I crawl outside and lace my fingers behind my head, cracking my back. The oppressive humidity has kept my shirt damp, so I’ll have to risk a sunburn. At least the hold of the hell ship protected us from being fried like shrimp. But the beatings, the constant screams, the maniacal cackling when a prisoner tripped during rough weather? No, I don’t miss that—or the vipers in charge. 

 

I scout the horizon for signs of rain. Only a few blurry puffs to the east. I have enough water for today, and I’ll bet those crates hide a stash of canteens, maybe even barrels. My lips quirk. That stingy mess cook who tried to give us saltwater would be spewing expletives if he could see me raiding their trash. Too late to complain, Jap.

 

I retreat to the shade and sit. The view is picturesque compared to the carnage I’ve seen. No gunfire to disrupt the rhythms of nature—it’s like a vacation. Except a warship would offer me a chance to go home.

 

I wish I had my Bible. Or something else to read. Building sandcastles with my feet is beyond boring. 

 

* * *

        

Day Three

 

My shirt’s dry, so I carve a stick into a spear and catch a sturgeon, plus a couple unfamiliar species that are too puny to cook. I hurl them back into the ocean, then regret not using them as bait. Idiot.

        

The worst part of fishing is the waiting. I enjoyed the pastime as a child because my grandpa and I would talk for hours on the riverbank. Sure, we had quiet moments, but being silent with somebody is worlds different than being silent alone. My mind wanders into places I’d rather not revisit.

 

Night creeps in, and I doze off with the tide lapping at my ankles. The sensation leads me into a dream about the march to the POW camp. We slog through mud, the ditches on either side of the road overflowing with rainwater. We’re parched, but our captors won’t allow us to pause even for a sip. One sailor throws himself to his knees and guzzles as much as he can before a guard submerges his head. When his struggling ceases, the guard yanks him onto his back and howls into his face. Barely conscious, he rejoins the procession, the point of a blade pressed against his spine. 

 

Soon prisoners start collapsing, and still the guards command us to keep moving. Three Japs step over the prone body of a naval engineer, one of them kicking him in the ribs. He spots me watching, raises his knife, and charges—

 

I jolt upright, gasping, and I swear—to myself, to God, to whoever is listening—that I will never be like them. 

 

* * *

        

Day Four

 

The sun’s appearance skyrockets the temperature again. I can’t convince myself to go fishing, so I stay inside most of the morning, squinting at the horizon and peering into the jungle at regular intervals. Surely our navy noticed the smoke plume after the torpedo. Surely the Mustangs’ pilots noticed survivors in the water.

 

Or maybe they assumed we were Japs and didn’t care. 

        

I grind my teeth. What were they thinking, attacking a POW ship? Did they somehow not realize what they were targeting? Was it an accident? Or were they so intent on killing Japs that they sacrificed us?  

 

* * *

 

Day Five

 

Nightmares ravage my sleep. Larsen digs himself free and chases me around the island until I drown in a puddle. Then he buries me, returns to his grave, and dies again. A Jap overseer guffaws and wags a pistol at us.  

 

I spend the day striving to erase the images, but fishing is my only activity, which means my imagination lacks restraints. Even the memories of my sergeant cracking up at his own jokes are miserable now. The guard would yell at him to shut up, but he believed he’d get out one way or another, so the threat of abuse didn’t intimidate him.  

        

He should have been the one to survive. He could handle being stranded better than me.

 

The sun descends, and faces swell up before me in the twilight—dead comrades and brothers-in-arms. My bunkmate’s wide eyes as he discovered the shrapnel imbedded in his chest. The men I couldn’t rescue from the landing craft after it exploded. The Jap who hauled me into a prison camp, jabbing me in the back of the knee to make me stumble. Telegrams sent to the mothers and wives and daughters. My darling Edith clutching a rectangle of paper that, for her, is the last of me.

 

I burst from my shack and scream until my throat is ragged and my eyes are swollen from weeping. I pass out, praying I don’t revive.

 

* * *

 

Day Six

 

Whatever insanity overcame me last night, I can’t let it happen again. My body feels like it’s on fire. I’m dehydrated and starving and my vision is bleary. I won’t last another week if I pull that stunt again.

 

God, help me. 

 

I’ve been managing okay so far. Gotta focus on the basics. Food, water, shelter, and sleep. Anything besides that is taboo. If I dwell on the past or the future, I’ll remember Larsen and Edith and that filthy Jap—

 

Gah! I’m doing it again! 

 

Food, water, shelter, sleep. Mark the passage of time with a tally, and I’ll be fine.

 

* * *

        

Day Ten

 

Food, water, shelter, sleep. No thinking, no wondering, no mourning. Only food, water, shelter, sleep. Don’t approach the wreckage except to salvage supplies. Don’t reminisce about old friendships—and especially not dates with Edith. Food, water, shelter, sleep. Notch the wood. Repeat the cycle.

 

* * *

        

Day Eighteen

 

Food, water, shelter, sleep. Grab my spear and skewer a sturgeon. Roast it over the coals of yesterday’s fire and swig from my pail of rainwater. Crawl under the palms thatching my hut as the sun starts baking the land and nap until my stomach growls again. Add another nick before night falls. 

 

* * *

        

Day Twenty-Six

 

I drag myself to the beach, my thoughts jumbling together in a long, tangled net that I can’t unwind. I don’t have time to. I need to finish my chores before the morning’s faint coolness fades. My skin is as dry as leather. 

        

I scan the shore from east to west. Shells and metal shards glint intermittently. A gull with a crab clamped in its beak hops over a small boulder. No, the lump is too soft and oblong to be that—probably yet another corpse. I turn to head in the opposite direction, but a niggling in my gut or my heart or my half-gone mind won’t let me. 

 

Cold sweat beads on my forehead as my feet seem to move unbidden. Maybe I’m still asleep and this is a dream. Maybe Larsen is going to resurrect himself again. Maybe—

 

The uniform. It’s a Jap.

 

My skin flushes redder than the Pacific sun could ever scorch it. If his heart beats, I’ll fix that fast. I break into a run but trip over driftwood and sprawl forward. If I could remember any curses, I’d be spitting them out with the infernal sand. I scramble toward the Jap on my hands and knees like a demented lizard and press my thumb to his neck. His pulse is steady. I lift a rock to smash his skull—

 

Edward, what has he done that you should kill him?

 

The rebuke is gentle, yet powerful and sad. Shame slams into me so hard that I can’t swallow or breathe. “He’s a Jap,” I argue, but my reason sounds feeble in the presence of the Someone who’s whispering to my conscience.

 

I drop the rock and stand to leave. Fine. His death isn’t my responsibility. 

 

Are you sure about that?

 

If our circumstances were swapped, he’d ditch me—or worse—without even a pang of guilt. And I’m not playing nursemaid to some Jap…anese sailor. 

 

The Marine splayed in the mud flashes through my memory like a lightning bolt.

 

This isn’t me, is it? Abandoning a helpless man? 

 

I study his face. He’s young, maybe early twenties, with gaunt features as if his superiors deprived him of rations too. 

 

Wouldn’t having company be nice?

 

The notion is so ridiculous that I roll my eyes. But I give in. I heft the sailor over my shoulder, surprised at how light he is and how strong I am after consuming nothing except rice and fish for weeks. 

 

In the shelter, I situate him on a pile of sand and blankets. His cracked lips part, but the pattern of his breathing doesn’t change. I dip a tin into my rainwater bucket and bring it to my mouth, then stop mid-slurp and pour it down his throat instead. His eyelids flutter without opening. 

 

Though I don’t understand why, I’m relieved, almost to the point of elation, that he doesn’t choke. Maybe he’ll eventually regain consciousness and we can talk—if he’s more fluent in English than I am Japanese, that is. 

 

What should I call him? He must have an identity, and I can’t ask him what it is, so I dig through his pockets for dog tags. Inside are a locket, a pocket knife, and a pair of oval discs engraved with the same incomprehensible symbols as the crates. Figures.

 

I prop my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands. I’ll have to make something up. Hira will suffice—that was the name of the Japanese cabin boy the guards were always heckling for being clumsy. I almost felt sorry for him.

 

I snort. My friends get blown to pieces and I’m becoming chummy with the enemy. I’ll end up in the psychiatric ward if I’m ever rescued.

 

* * *

 

My lonely vigil drags on as the stars wheel overhead. The sailor still hasn’t stirred. His belongings lay scattered beside him. The knife and dog tags are standard issue, but curiosity nudges me to examine the locket. 

 

I click the latch at the bottom, exposing two portraits. Water damage curls the edges. The one on the left is from a wedding, and the one on the right is of a beautiful Japanese woman, her expression serene and kind. 

 

I snap the locket shut. How did he get here? Into the war, onto this island, into the hands of an American who almost murdered him? Was he drafted, or did he enlist like the accursed fool I am? 

 

I have a wife too, and a home, neighbors, friends. I’m neither dead nor alive, and miles of ocean separate me from everything and everyone I love. God, what have I done?

 

A gurgle, followed by a prolonged moment of quiet, yanks me back to the present.

 

Hira’s breathing has shallowed. No, no, no.

 

Hands trembling, I search for a pulse. It’s barely detectable. Thready. I hold my breath as if that will give him more oxygen and murmur the same plea for his recovery over and over. 

 

When shades of pink and purple tinge the eastern horizon and the stars wink out, I slump back against the boards. The swells whoosh in and out in a soothing medley. My eyelids droop once, twice, and then close. I can’t do anything else. God is in control of the outcome. 

 

Hira exhales and…doesn’t inhale. 

        

My gut clenches. I grab him and shake him hard. “Wake up, wake up, wake up!” But he’s gone. I burst into sobs as violent as a thunderstorm, not over my Edith or good old Larsen, but over someone I should hate. Someone who would have stabbed me in any other context, someone who never even met me. 

 

* * *

 

I tuck Hira into the ground beside Larsen later that afternoon. My eyes sting from the sun’s glare and the tears I’ve shed. I slip one of his dog tags into my pocket, vowing to learn his name if I ever get off the island. Then I sit with the graves until the sun sinks, glowing like a searchlight across the ripples.

 

When I rouse to the chatter of birds, I don’t know what time I drifted off or how long I’ve been out. The height of the sun indicates it’s about noon. Slowly, I stand, shading my eyes, and scan the horizon. Nothing, nothing, nothing—

 

Wait. Due east. A streak of white.

 

I blink, pinch myself, and even close my eyes for a full thirty seconds before refocusing on the approaching object. It’s no mirage. I’ve memorized every kind of vessel in our fleet, and this one is unmistakably American.

 

The loudest shout I’ve ever heard erupts from inside me. I beeline for my shack and kick it into kindling that I strike with a match. Wisps swirl upward. 

 

The smoke needs to be darker. If the crew doesn’t spot my signal fire, I’m signing my execution order, so I uproot every plant I can and throw the bushel into the flames until the blaze is taller than me. I dance around like a madman, flailing my arms. 

 

Save your energy, Ed. You’ll need it for the swim.

 

My rusty old mind clanks back into gear, and I suck in a breath to calm myself. I wade into the water up to my knees, the spray spattering my cheeks. The ship’s closer now. I’m either going to drown or be saved.

 

But no matter what happens, I’m never coming back!

 

I turn toward the two driftwood crosses shuddering in the gusts. I salute Larsen—but what did I name the Japanese sailor? I’ve forgotten in the adrenaline rush. 

 

Brother. That will do.

 

I bow the way I’ve seen the Japanese greet each other—hands clasped in front, body stiff as a board, bent over at the waist. A tear glides down to my chin. Take care of him and his family, Jesus.

 

And then I dive in.

 

---

Laurel Wood has been telling stories since she was six years old, creating baby books for her younger sisters and entertaining them during sleepovers. After discovering the young adult genre’s lack of uplifting stories, she began working on an adventure novel at age twelve and fell in love with writing. She majored in English and minored in Creative Writing at Pepperdine University, where she currently studies law. She contributes regularly to the Denison Forum on Truth and Culture, a forum dedicated to discerning news through a biblical lens. Her essay, “No Mere Materialism,” examining the frailty of materialist ideology in C. S. Lewis’s Space Trilogy, has been published in Pepperdine’s Global Tides and will appear in the Southern California Lewis Society’s Lamp-Post this fall. In her free time, she enjoys gardening, cooking, all manner of arts and crafts, exploring the great outdoors…and, of course, reading as many books as she can.