Footnote

1942

The heat was stifling - a hot, humid heat that hung over the air like a blanket. The ocean air made breathing an excercise, like having a blanket covering every inch of you, when all you want is the cold crispness of a fresh breeze, a breeze you know won't come.

A sick energy buzzed through the villages, filling every nerve with nervous anticipation. Dark smoke flowed through the trees to the north, growing closer daily.

There were no phone lines to carry the news, but it traveled anyway - war was coming, the slow death march.

Stories traveled from village to village, too horrible to be true. Soldiers were killing civilians for no reason, slitting a dozen throats with bayonet from the back of a moving truck. No one dared to believe it could be true.

But the smoke moved closer, no more than a day away, and this village was in the middle of the warpath.


He stood outside of his home, a beautiful two-story structure built with his own hands, built for the love of his life. She stood at the second story bedroom window, the tropical sun shining through lace curtains. Beautiful - she was unbearably beautiful.

He had to turn away, not able to look at her, knowing the dangers that were down the road, not wanting to let the tears sting his eyes, knowing they would.

They had a plan - the women would hide in a cellar, while the men and boys old enough to fight would make their stand. They did not hope for victory - there was no room for such futile thoughts. There was also no room for surrender. The village was built by hand, the stones paved with the blood and love of generations, and it would not be given freely to the coming barbarians.


... to be continued