About 70 years have passed since those days, probably more, but who’s counting? I’m just an old man who only has his memories to keep him warm. I drink to remember, I also drink to forget.
My grandchildren are in the next room, along with my great-grandchildren. I silently thank the Lord for my good grace. I remember the nights in the POW camp, stuffed in boxcars without any way to see the outside world. The Japanese would kick as many of us in each car as they could. I remember the men I fought with, good men. They were broken by disease and hunger. I don’t know how I got out of there alive. It took more than any sort of physical strength that I could ever bear. But looking into the eyes of my children and their children and their children’s children, I know what I was fighting for was worth all the suffering I could ever endure. I would do it again one million times over.
Isa sits next to me and asks me for another story. Among all my great-grandchildren I think she’s the smartest. She always has her head stuck in a book and she really likes hearing my stories, especially from the war. Today, I’m going to tell her something different.
I sometimes go back to Lingayen. I like to stand by the gulf and remember the friends that fought with me, the friends I had lost. It’s quiet now, but I can still hear the lingering echoes of the kamikaze aircraft flying into the ships. Last year I wasn’t alone. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, but I could recognize what it was from a mile away.
No one had time for burials then. We were resourceful and had to use what we could. That usually meant covering the bodies in mats and leaving them where we found them while we avoided machine gun fire.
We stared at each other for a long time. I don’t know if it was someone I knew, someone I bled with or someone I made bleed. It didn’t say a word, it didn’t even move. It just stood there, blocking my way. I took out the knife that was a gift from the marine I met after the war. I never thought I would have to use it.
I stabbed the ghost where it stood, its legs disappeared and the mat unfurled, releasing a horrible stench. To some people that putrid odor would be disgusting, but with all I’ve been through, I know that sometimes horrible smells can lead you to freedom.
Isa frowns, I don’t think she believes my words. She asks for another one about the kamikazes and the ships and I surrender. There’s no arguing with a young child looking for a story.
It has been around 70 years since those days, but the ghosts and echoes still linger.
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Written by Karl Gaverza
Copyright © Karl Gaverza
Story inspired by the Pasatsat legends from Pangasinan.
Pasatsat Illustration by Leandro Geniston from Aklat ng mga Anito
FB: That Guy With A Pen
Watercolor by Isabel Leonio and Mykie Concepcion
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