A Familiar Heart
Chapter One
Los Banos Internment Camp
The Philippines
February 23, 1945
Angels fell from the yellow dawn sky, their
billowing white wings looking like fat, silky
snowflakes. Against the chopped, guttural
warnings of her fellow bunkmates, she drifted
into the yard, watching with fascination as the
dots became larger. They were beautiful. Silent
and ethereal, they beckoned her. Come closer,
they said. So she did, on stick-thin legs.
"Stop," the voice behind her breathed, cowardly
remaining behind the cracked door of the hut.
"Scully! The hole - do you want to go back?"
She paid it no mind, entranced by the way the
angels floated to the ground in small twisters of
dust. Not even the threat of the hole could stop
her advance.
Suddenly, the air became violent with sound and
movement. The battle cries of the guards awoke
the rest of the camp, and the screams of the
imprisoned blended with the emerging rattle of
gunfire.
Chaos filled her nostrils, the acrid smell of
mortar fire and panic forcing her trembling legs
to move. Move to the fence, no - the safety of
the infirmary. The Japanese wouldn't dare shell
the sick prisoners, would they? Yes, they'd
pulled out a week or more ago, leaving only a
small administrative contingent made of two old
men and a green boy. But they'd come back
without warning just a few days ago, saying
nothing, tearing down the makeshift stars and
stripes with eyes that scoured the prisoners with
hatred. Her defiance, wordless and proud, had
landed her in the hole again, while the others
slithered back to the huts. But she stood firm,
sure the Allies would come to save them all, sad
at the way the American flag was torn and burned.
But now, she wasn't so sure. Would they really
have only come back to make sure there was
nothing left but ashes and charred bodies? To
get rid of the prisoners as they'd done the flag
just days ago, in a fiery funeral pyre?
Rumors had flown about for weeks of an impending
Allied invasion. The sounds of bombardment had
filled the air to the north. Whispers among the
internees carried tales of the liberation of
Manila, with their own freedom just the next hill
over. But she'd been here so long, she hadn't
dared to give them much credence. Neither did
any of the other nurses interned at Los Banos;
they'd all become inured to hope and eventual
salvation from the endless days of tending the
wounded soldiers and civilians. No, no one was
coming to help. It was more of *them*, it had to
be. Disposing of POW's that had been forgotten
long ago, like a child throwing away odd Lincoln
Logs that no longer fit into the new, improved
set.
The Japanese Army had no more use for them, as a
bargaining tool, or as extra medical help. And
they certainly wouldn't blink twice at
obliterating all trace of the women, if it meant
hiding their treatment of them in the last
months. She'd heard from one of the English-
speaking officers last week that Konishi had
ordered a massacre of a village not sixty
kilometers from this camp - in a fit of pique at
losing control of Santo Tomas. The bright light
of freedom was unbelievably dim, and the horror
of their captors' revenge was all too real.
The thought, scrambled as it was with images of
her father and mother as she last saw them, her
brothers, proud and ramrod straight in their Navy
blue, her sister... God, Melissa had been
pregnant back in the fall of '41... all this and
more made the decision for her. The fence or
death.
Her slight, malnourished form stumbled several
times, until she hit the dirt with a sputter.
Crawling, she refused to give up, though the
fence was now nothing more than a blur. The
laughing faces of the camp denizens swam up in
her vision. Ishimaru, the guard with a gimp leg
who had endeared himself to the nurses with his
easy protection from the others' advances,
stating that it was dishonorable to violate them.
Sagi, the lone Filipino woman who was allowed in
at weekly intervals to pick up laundry and
deposit shined shoes.
Finally, there was Zama, the cool, inhumane head
doctor who used enemy soldiers - as well as a few
of his own - in experiments his government was
unaware of; she and the others had cringed in
horror at the screams that came each night from
the forbidden hut nestled in the back of the
camp. They knew what he was doing, but were
powerless to help. The whispers through the
guards' ranks shook on his name... Zama, Zama.
No one stood between Zama and his business, most
certainly not the white nurses. Even though
their blood was tainted by capitalist ideals and
therefore suitable for the experiments by virtue
of its lesser value, their notoriety as women
captives apparently kept them safe from
experimentation. Geneva knew of the nurses'
existence, knew them all by name. They were best
kept alive and in good health. It hadn't stopped
the Japanese from putting her in the hole,
however. And the hole hadn't stopped her from
trying to thwart Zama's plans at every
opportunity.
But now, with Zama's stony face laughing at her
miserable, hopeless attempt to flee, she realized
that, tainted or not, her capitalist blood would
soon stain the clumps of dried grass beneath her
worn dress. The guns were getting closer, no
matter to whom they belonged. Zama laughed
still, his gray hair standing on end and his
cheeks reddening with sadistic mirth, like a
horrible caricature of a clown gone bad. Fear
clogged her throat; as a child, she'd been afraid
of clowns. Masks and wigs, painted on or not,
hid monsters. The more Zama laughed, the more
fright pumped through her veins. With a strength
borne of absolute terror, she got to her feet,
mindless of the bullets that zinged past her
head.
"Get down, get down!"
The shout came at her from a place she'd not felt
in more than two years - could it be? Beyond the
smoke, beyond the gunfire, laid fresh air and
home. She staggered to the opening in the wire
that looked like someone had squashed it with an
iron fist. Armored vehicles, dripping water from
nearby Laguna da Bay, streamed in, separating
their ranks to encircle the buildings. Soldiers
poured out of the metal beasts, spreading out
like ants across the yard, their clothes dark and
indistinguishable as friend or foe. The sight
gave her pause, and she fell to her knees, sure
now that this was no bid for freedom. The gates
of hell had opened, releasing the Nippon demons,
and she cowered, crying out as she brought her
hands to her kerchief-covered head.
God, she couldn't go back into the hole. Her
bravado of moments ago disappeared as the memory
of almost suffocation in the black heat
overwhelmed her.
"No..." The language of submission, learned over
the years from harsh taskmasters bent on erasing
all trace of the English dog, spilled from her
lips. "Teiryuu! Douzo!"
A hand blackened with soot and gunpowder flashed
before her face, and she gasped at the feel of it
clamped onto her shoulder. "Get up! Move!" the
voice attached to that huge paw barked, and she
allowed him to pull her up, raising her head to
look into the face of the devil.
His eyes were hooded by the combat helmet, and
his face was streaked with black paint, his open
mouth showing her a slash of white teeth. They
seemed to snarl at her, to balloon into a
grotesque mask that was the most frightening
thing she'd ever seen.
"Iie! Iie!" No, no, she cried, certain this
clown was bent on murdering her where she stood.
"C'mon, God damn it!" He yanked on her arm, his
rifle poised to fire, his eyes red with angry
purpose.
From behind her, she heard the gunfire pick up,
and she twisted in the manacle of his hand, low
pleas bleeding from her lips. But he stood firm,
pulling her to the fence.
"Lady, we're here to save you! Shut the hell up
and quit fighting me!"
In a mind so used to hearing the staccato raps of
the Japanese language, his low, Yankee accent
took time to penetrate. But it did, and she
stilled, finally opening her eyes to dispel the
hideous clown. It was as if the sun had
penetrated the gloom of her existence, wiping
away the thunderclouds of imprisonment. His face
was defined under the war paint, with a strong
chin and even more austere nose that slashed down
the middle of his high, tense, cheekbones. And
those eyes... she'd thought them black, but they
weren't. Green? Brown?
A flash of blue caught her eye, adding the final
piece to the puzzle. A patch, blaring from the
sleeve of his camouflage shirt, the number '11'
emblazoned upon snowy white wings. He was an
angel after all. Sent down from heaven amidst a
balloon of white silk, here to take her home.
Misty tears of relief blurred her vision and she
sagged, sure she was in the grip of safety; if by
nothing more definitive than the small grin that
curled one side of that full mouth at last.
"Blue eyes," he stated, winking as he dropped his
voice to a purr. "How about those Yankees?"
Baseball, mother, apple pie... she saw it all in
his easy smile and promising, subtle clasp, as if
he'd never let her go. Her lips parted in return
and she felt a smile crack her sunburned cheeks
for the first time in forever. His smile became
mischievous, amazing in the dwindling melee that
surrounded them. "Don't tell me - you're a
Dodger fan. Must be fate."
She wanted to tell him that she loved baseball,
and yes, 'da bums' were in fact, her favorite
team. She wanted to reach up and kiss his
stubbled face, then wrap her arms about his solid
body and let him carry her back to U.S. soil and
the smell of horsehide and the feel of smooth
pine...
A voice from the other side of the yard broke
into the haze that surrounded them. "Two of
'em!" it shouted. "Hospital windows! Get down!"
The shooting that had died down momentarily
picked up again, this time from behind and to her
left. Ping, ping - then dull thuds, like an
arrow hitting a target-covered bale of hay.
Thomp. Ping. Thomp.
"Down, down, down!" the voices all screamed,
followed by "Captain! Down!"
The smiling face before her froze for a split
second, then he folded over her, shielding her
from harm. A burning pain creased her
collarbone, followed by a muffled *thump*. The
hand holding her tightened, then went slack, and
he started to fall.
"Shit," he said with disbelief, his rifle hitting
the ground in a puff of dust.
"No," she whispered, trying her best to hold him
up. But he collapsed beneath her like a felled
tree, his beautiful eyes glazing over. She went
with him, her slight weight no match for his
brawn. "No!"
A slim scarlet line blossomed from his chest, and
she shut down her fear, automatically bringing a
hand to cover the wound, all the while struggling
to remember words - *English* words - of comfort.
"Still," she choked out, her other hand whipping
the kerchief off her shorn head. "L-lie still."
Packing the dirty cloth over the hole in his
chest, she smeared his blood on her cheeks as she
swiped at her tears.
One last word came from him, with wonder, as his
gaze swept over her bright, painfully short hair.
"Red."
The whole world was now red, she thought. His
bloodshot eyes closed, and her hands floated in a
sea of his blood. She shrugged off the other
hands pulling her away. "No!"
"Ma'am, let go."
"No!"
"Give way, ma'am. Medic's here."
The soft words filtered in, and she realized all
was now silent. The Americans now had control of
the camp; their guns were mostly silent, except
for the lone, leftover shots into shadows. It
was time to go. With one last look at the man
that lay at her knees, she let the medic take
over, knowing the wound was most likely mortal.
She'd seen enough of misery and death to
recognize it. Her hero, her savior, was dead.
A flurry of soldiers surrounded her, their guns
drawn against possible threat, the one who'd
pulled her away speaking to her in low, muted
tones. "Ma'am? Can you tell me who you are?
Ma'am?"
She watched the medics load him onto a stretcher;
as they ran with him to a waiting truck beyond
the fence, she found her voice. A normal,
American voice.
"Scully."
It was all she could get out over the lump of
sadness in her throat. But the soldier,
obviously well-trained in his objective, smiled,
adding the particulars himself.
"Lieutenant Dana Scully, Navy Nurse Corps." His
right hand snapped up, as he straightened and
saluted. "Sergeant John Franklin, 11th Airborne
Division. There's an Amtrac waiting for you,
ma'am. We've got to hurry." He offered a
strong, steady hand and she took it, walking
beside him to the amphibious vehicle that had
crossed the lake beyond the fence.
She looked back only once, seeing the truck
carrying her dead hero disappear in all the smoky
sunshine. A fresh spate of tears crowded her
eyes; she lowered her head, not wanting the
sergeant to see her cry. Thankfully, he said
nothing, as the vehicle lurched to movement.
Home. She was going home.
End Chapter One
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