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1942

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Eulalia said:
Tenko's been much recycled as a BBC classic, not sure how much in USA though:
some very good actors were in it, some first made their name then.​
Click to expand...
Tenko aired on the Public Broadcasting System (PBS) in the mid 80s. Because PBS is a non-commercial network, it aired with the nudity & violence intact. And, best of all, one the stars was Louise Jameson, aka Dr Who's Leela.:)
 
1942 (part 2 – Death March)

With a soft scrunching noise and a jolt our barge runs aground several yards from shore. Carrying my shoes in one hand and clutching the front of my torn dress with the other, I clamber over the side, splash down into waist-deep water, and wade to the beach.

A detail of Japanese soldiers are there to receive us. They are a scruffy-looking bunch, filthy and unshaven, their uniforms consisting of open sweat-stained cotton shirts, baggy knee-length shorts, woolen puttees or leg wraps and short heavy boots. Their field caps have hanging flaps at the back to protect their necks from the sun, but which also give them an almost comical appearance.

They are efficient and dangerous, however. They quickly round us up and herd us at bayonet point off the beach and into a barbed-wire enclosure. We are made to sit on the ground, arms wrapped around our raised knees, sodden clothing drying in the sun.

None of the soldiers seem able to speak anything but Japanese. They gesticulate, yell at us, and prod us with their weapons until we are arranged neatly in a series of long lines facing the nearby coastal road.

Glancing around me I reckon we probably number around sixty or seventy. After a while we are joined by additional groups of women, some arriving by boat, others on foot from up and down the coast.

By mid-morning the number of prisoners has risen to several hundred and growing. Water and stale biscuits are distributed.

We eat, drink and wait, wondering what will happen next … our apprehension heightened by the whispered rumors making the rounds about the Japanese forcing women to serve as “comfort women” at military brothels.

At midday we are roused and gotten to our feet. An officer addresses us from the back of a truck parked on the shoulder of the road. He is a short little man, with a scraggy beard and a cold stare. He speaks in a puffed-up officious manner, which is undercut by a high-pitched raspy voice.

He seems to assume we understand Japanese. I have no idea what the words mean, but from the actions of the soldiers, who have begun to hustle us into a long column, it seems clear we are about to be marched off down a dirt road leading into the jungle.

I slip into my shoes and take my place near the middle of the column. Amid shouts and curses we shuffle off two or three abreast in the wake of the truck, on the back of which the officer still stands and harangues us.

The day is hot and the air heavy with moisture. My cotton floral print dress sticks to my sweaty back, and I keep wiping beads of sweat from my forehead and around my eyes. The air is filled with buzzing insects which must be swatted away. I soon learn that my heeled shoes are impractical for walking. I take them off, toss them in the ditch and go barefoot.

The pace is fast and we are not allowed to stop and rest. The heat and humidity begin to take their toll. My head droops and my attention focuses … as I trudge wearily along the rutted dirt road … on the brownish-red dust covering my bare feet.

A bit of a commotion breaks out up the line ahead … yelling and cursing and the sounds of a woman wailing. The column slows and comes to a halt. A shot rings out, the report echoing through the surrounding jungle. All is quiet.

The column moves ahead again. A hundred yards up the road I come to the scene of the disturbance, gingerly stepping over the nude body of a woman sprawled on her back, a bloody bullet hole in her forehead, her lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky. I recognize her as the headmistress of the school where I teach. I look, shudder, turn my head away and keep going.

By mid-afternoon it is the heat of the day. We have been walking for hours. My throat is parched, my feet are sore, I am tired and miserable. I yearn to just sit a spell and rest along the side of the road.

But we are forced to press on. Anyone who stumbles, falters, or shows any sign of falling out incurs the wrath of the soldiers, who are quick to kick or cuff the poor thing back into line.

These incidents become more frequent as the afternoon wears on, and the reactions of the soldiers more savage. The whole thing is turning into a nightmare. Fear keeps me going.

Ahead of me, someone goes down. She is kicked repeatedly, but appears unable or unwilling to get up. Commands are shouted, soldiers come running.

They drag her to her feet, back pedal her off the road and up against a tree. Her dress is ripped open; her arms pinned back around and behind the tree trunk.

A soldier steps in front, weighs his rifle for a moment in both hands, lunges at her and buries his bayonet in her belly. As she screams and slides to the ground, he calmly places his boot against her heaving chest, slowly withdraws the bloody blade, and walks away.

I look away, trudge on, sickened and more fearful than ever.

Our march through the dense tropical rain forest seems endless, and the behavior of our captors becomes increasingly barbarous. They seem to enjoy bayoneting helpless people, stepping away from each execution with a manically rapturous look on their faces. Their bloodlust is up; they are looking for any excuse. Our passage is increasingly marked by a grisly trail of corpses along the roadside.

At long last a halt is called. A military convoy needs to pass through. We are allowed to fall out along the side of the road. Flopping on the ground, we sit and watch the seemingly endless column of trucks as they roll slowly by.

Our escorts seem to be at a loss for something to do. They roam around in small groups, jabbering among themselves and occasionally pointing at one of us. Someone nearby hisses, “keep your eyes down, don’t make eye contact with them unless you want to invite trouble!”

“Too late,” I think; they seem to have picked out a victim. Three of them step in amongst us and suddenly pull a young woman to her feet and begin to drag her off.

I recognize her. She teaches at the same school I do. Her name is Blaire … small and athletic … responsible for the physical education side of the school program.

Crowding around her they strip off her clothes and back her up against a tree, pinning her arms back. She begins to shriek and shake with terror, her small breasts bobbing slightly. A fourth soldier approaches with his rifle at the ready, its bayonet blade already smeared with dried blood.

Something snaps inside me … I don’t know what or why … but I thrust out my foot as he passes and trip him. He sprawls on the ground with a howl of surprise and anger.

In a matter of seconds I am seized, lifted off the ground, and carried kicking over to and slammed against the tree adjacent to Blaire’s. My dress is ripped away, the remaining two buttons popping loose and flying into the air. My wrists are yanked sharply behind me, wrapped around and pinned against the smooth damp bark of the tree.

More soldiers gather. The man I tripped is back on his feet. He gestures to one of the others to take care of Blaire while he takes his place in front of me, face red with rage and bayoneted rifle extended menacingly toward my fearfully shivering nude body.

This is the end. I know it, and begin to steel myself for the awful searing pain that will surely come. I can’t imagine what it will be like to be run through by that gleaming steel blade.

I look toward Blaire. She glances with a frantic wide-eyed expression at the man poised in front of her and then at me, squeezes her eyes shut, and takes a deep breath, expanding her chest and tightening the abs of her belly.

My man clearly wants to drag this out. He takes a step forward and gently pokes at my mound with the tip of his bayonet. I cringe and kick out feebly, but he ignores that and slowly slides the tip of the blade up the slope of my abdomen, stopping briefly over my navel and then continuing upward and gently lifting the soft flesh of my right breast and jiggling it playfully, before stepping back and assuming the stance that precedes the thrust.

I go white with terror. I can hear my heart pounding in my chest, and am trembling from head to foot. I know it is coming when I see the other women sitting nearby on the ground turn their heads away. I gulp, close my eyes and wait.


TO BE CONTINUED
 
Last edited:
thrilling writing Barb, already getting into a tense story.
I must admit I chuckled a bit at the fiendish Japanese speaking nothing but Japanese -
the utter cads! :eek: :eek: :eek:​
 
Barbaria1 said:
1942 (part 2 – Death March)

With a soft scrunching noise and a jolt our barge runs aground several yards from shore. Carrying my shoes in one hand and clutching the front of my torn dress with the other, I clamber over the side, splash down into waist-deep water, and wade to the beach.

A detail of Japanese soldiers are there to receive us. They are a scruffy-looking bunch, filthy and unshaven, their uniforms consisting of open sweat-stained cotton shirts, baggy knee-length shorts, woolen puttees or leg wraps and short heavy boots. Their field caps have hanging flaps at the back to protect their necks from the sun, but which also give them an almost comical appearance.

They are efficient and dangerous, however. They quickly round us up and herd us at bayonet point off the beach and into a barbed-wire enclosure. We are made to sit on the ground, arms wrapped around our raised knees, sodden clothing drying in the sun.

None of the soldiers seem able to speak anything but Japanese. They gesticulate, yell at us, and prod us with their weapons until we are arranged neatly in a series of long lines facing the nearby coastal road.

Glancing around me I reckon we probably number around sixty or seventy. After a while we are joined by additional groups of women, some arriving by boat, others on foot from up and down the coast.

By mid-morning the number of prisoners has risen to several hundred and growing. Water and stale biscuits are distributed.

We eat, drink and wait, wondering what will happen next … our apprehension heightened by the whispered rumors making the rounds about the Japanese forcing women to serve as “comfort women” at military brothels.

At midday we are roused and gotten to our feet. An officer addresses us from the back of a truck parked on the shoulder of the road. He is a short little man, with a scraggy beard and a cold stare. He speaks in a puffed-up officious manner, which is undercut by a high-pitched raspy voice.

He seems to assume we understand Japanese. I have no idea what the words mean, but from the actions of the soldiers, who have begun to hustle us into a long column, it seems clear we are about to be marched off down a dirt road leading into the jungle.

I slip into my shoes and take my place near the middle of the column. Amid shouts and curses we shuffle off two or three abreast in the wake of the truck, on the back of which the officer still stands and harangues us.

The day is hot and the air heavy with moisture. My cotton floral print dress sticks to my sweaty back, and I keep wiping beads of sweat from my forehead and around my eyes. The air is filled with buzzing insects which must be swatted away. I soon learn that my heeled shoes are impractical for walking. I take them off, toss them in the ditch and go barefoot.

The pace is fast and we are not allowed to stop and rest. The heat and humidity begin to take their toll. My head droops and my attention focuses … as I trudge wearily along the rutted dirt road … on the brownish-red dust covering my bare feet.

A bit of a commotion breaks out up the line ahead … yelling and cursing and the sounds of a woman wailing. The column slows and comes to a halt. A shot rings out, the report echoing through the surrounding jungle. All is quiet.

The column moves ahead again. A hundred yards up the road I come to the scene of the disturbance, gingerly stepping over the nude body of a woman sprawled on her back, a bloody bullet hole in her forehead, her lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky. I recognize her as the headmistress of the school where I teach. I look, shudder, turn my head away and keep going.

By mid-afternoon it is the heat of the day. We have been walking for hours. My throat is parched, my feet are sore, I am tired and miserable. I yearn to just sit a spell and rest along the side of the road.

But we are forced to press on. Anyone who stumbles, falters, or shows any sign of falling out incurs the wrath of the soldiers, who are quick to kick or cuff the poor thing back into line.

These incidents become more frequent as the afternoon wears on, and the reactions of the soldiers more savage. The whole thing is turning into a nightmare. Fear keeps me going.

Ahead of me, someone goes down. She is kicked repeatedly, but appears unable or unwilling to get up. Commands are shouted, soldiers come running.

They drag her to her feet, back pedal her off the road and up against a tree. Her dress is ripped open; her arms pinned back around and behind the tree trunk.

A soldier steps in front, weighs his rifle for a moment in both hands, lunges at her and buries his bayonet in her belly. As she screams and slides to the ground, he calmly places his boot against her heaving chest, slowly withdraws the bloody blade, and walks away.

I look away, trudge on, sickened and more fearful than ever.

Our march through the dense tropical rain forest seems endless, and the behavior of our captors becomes increasingly barbarous. They seem to enjoy bayoneting helpless people, stepping away from each execution with a manically rapturous look on their faces. Their bloodlust is up; they are looking for any excuse. Our passage is increasingly marked by a grisly trail of corpses along the roadside.

At long last a halt is called. A military convoy needs to pass through. We are allowed to fall out along the side of the road. Flopping on the ground, we sit and watch the seemingly endless column of trucks as they roll slowly by.

Our escorts seem to be at a loss for something to do. They roam around in small groups, jabbering among themselves and occasionally pointing at one of us. Someone nearby hisses, “keep your eyes down, don’t make eye contact with them unless you want to invite trouble!”

“Too late,” I think; they seem to have picked out a victim. Three of them step in amongst us and suddenly pull a young woman to her feet and begin to drag her off.

I recognize her. She teaches at the same school I do. Her name is Blaire … small and athletic … responsible for the physical education side of the school program.

Crowding around her they strip off her clothes and back her up against a tree, pinning her arms back. She begins to shriek and shake with terror, her small breasts bobbing slightly. A fourth soldier approaches with his rifle at the ready, its bayonet blade already smeared with dried blood.

Something snaps inside me … I don’t know what or why … but I thrust out my foot as he passes and trip him. He sprawls on the ground with a howl of surprise and anger.

In a matter of seconds I am seized, lifted off the ground, and carried kicking over to and slammed against the tree adjacent to Blaire’s. My dress is ripped away, the remaining two buttons popping loose and flying into the air. My wrists are yanked sharply behind me, wrapped around and pinned against the smooth damp bark of the tree.

More soldiers gather. The man I tripped is back on his feet. He gestures to one of the others to take care of Blaire while he takes his place in front of me, face red with rage and bayoneted rifle extended menacingly toward my fearfully shivering nude body.

This is the end. I know it, and begin to steel myself for the awful searing pain that will surely come. I can’t imagine what it will be like to be run through by that gleaming steel blade.

I look toward Blaire. She glances with a frantic wide-eyed expression at the man poised in front of her and then at me, squeezes her eyes shut, and takes a deep breath, expanding her chest and tightening the abs of her belly.

My man clearly wants to drag this out. He takes a step forward and gently pokes at my mound with the tip of his bayonet. I cringe and kick out feebly, but he ignores that and slowly slides the tip of the blade up the slope of my abdomen, stopping briefly over my navel and then continuing upward and gently lifting the soft flesh of my right breast and jiggling it playfully, before stepping back and assuming the stance that precedes the thrust.

I go white with terror. I can hear my heart pounding in my chest, and am trembling from head to foot. I know it is coming when I see the other women sitting nearby on the ground turn their heads away. I gulp, close my eyes and wait.


TO BE CONTINUED
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No messing about in this one! Straight to the good (?) stuff! As usual I'm instantly enthralled and engrossed! (Not to mention soaked) You certainly are giving Wragg some good stuff for the loathometer!:eek: This can't be the end already though....;)
 
cxslave said:
No messing about in this one! Straight to the good (?) stuff! As usual I'm instantly enthralled and engrossed! (Not to mention soaked) You certainly are giving Wragg some good stuff for the loathometer!:eek: This can't be the end already though....;)
Click to expand...

Don't worry..... more to come:)
 
cxslave said:
No messing about in this one! Straight to the good (?) stuff! As usual I'm instantly enthralled and engrossed! (Not to mention soaked) You certainly are giving Wragg some good stuff for the loathometer!:eek: This can't be the end already though....;)
Click to expand...

Whatever else I might loathe, Cx, I don't loathe the quality of Barb's writing......by God, this is spellbinding stuff!:eek:

Hottest writer on the planet, is Barb! :)
 
Excellent chapter Barbara, but I fear you will escape death on the bayonet for much more trouble ahead...

Eulalia said:
thrilling writing Barb, already getting into a tense story.
I must admit I chuckled a bit at the fiendish Japanese speaking nothing but Japanese -
the utter cads! :eek: :eek: :eek:​
Click to expand...
This is a good reason to learn either learn the language of the women you capture or the women should know the language of their captors....

Tree
 
cxslave said:
I think our well educated European friends might actually have to google that one! Well played Barb! :devil:
Click to expand...

You better cut the pizza in four pieces because I'm not hungry enough to eat six.
----
A nickel ain't worth a dime anymore.

Yogi Berra

;)
 
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